


The Haunting

by Lightning_Strikes_Again



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, But there's a lot of problems to work out, Does contain Allura/Lance scenes but this story explores the breakdown of that relationship, Drama, F/M, Ghost!Honerva and Zarkon, Ghost!Lotor, Ghostor haunting Allura, Hurt/Comfort, If Allura can resurrect an entire multiverse I think she can resurrect a few other things, Lotura - Freeform, References to depression suicidal thoughts eating problems, References to nudity and sex, character injury, post-S8 AU, potentially triggering content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25432303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Strikes_Again/pseuds/Lightning_Strikes_Again
Summary: A Post-S8 AU. Princess Allura survived restoring the multiverse, but in the aftermath of peace, she is haunted by her own lack of agency and purpose—as well as by ghosts from her past, with agendas of their own…
Relationships: Allura/Lotor (Voltron)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

Princess Allura of Altea stood in a daze. With the universe saved and multiverse restored, there was little for a 10,000-year-old princess to do. Her remaining people did not desire a monarchy. The Galra were willing to attempt a democracy, exhausted of bloodshed themselves, but they did not care for the opinion of an Altean princess. The Galaxy Garrison seemed to be the only group in want of her—specifically for her knowledge and abilities.

The most powerful woman in the universe was now a simple teacher on planet Earth, and a part-time mechanic for the humans’ more experimental technologies like the MFE Fighters and the rebuilding of the IGF-Atlas. She’d given up her opulent dresses and space suits for simpler uniforms—the material rough in ways that Altean clothing was not.

At times, Princess Allura desired greatly to shift her ears and hide her marks and darken her hair, simply to avoid the stares every time she walked among humans.

But all knew her now, just as she was.

Her dark fingers trembled as she shook out of her daze, reaching for the books upon her desk. “Oh, quit it, you,” she murmured to herself, voice strained in pain. Upon her hand, a little, gold ring flashed—a promise from Lance McClain of his undying affections.

She swallowed hard and looked away from it. “You’re just having a spell, is all,” she whispered to herself. She’d been having them more frequently, feeling as if even her body were not her own, that surely this could not be the life that she was meant to have—

She pressed her lips together in a flush of guilt, smashing down what little was left of her royal pride or selfishness. She knew she had much to be thankful for. Lance’s family adored her, welcomed her with open arms. She had numerous students interested in her and Coran’s teachings on the universe and the nature of quintessence. She had a safe home at last. Peace throughout the universe.

Peace everywhere, except for inside herself.

Her elfin ears flicked back in sorrow, her face shadowing in pain. The ongoing depression in her had aged her hard, it felt, even though many had touched her in awe, as if she were some immortal god with her powers and youth.

It was in the midst of slowly gathering her books and datapad that suddenly, the room grew cold. A chill worked down Allura’s spine, goose-bumping her flesh beneath her teaching uniform.

Suddenly, her datapad swept out from her hand of its own volition. Allura’s eyes widened in fright, and she reached forward. But it was too late. The datapad crashed hard to the floor, its protective case buckling with a dozen cracks—an edge chipping off.

Allura’s white brows knitted together in panic. “Oh, no! No, no—not again. Please, not again.”

She moved from beyond the desk, a whine in the back of her throat. The hair on the nape of her neck raised. As she kneeled to gather the broken datapad, something crunched down upon it.

It was a thin, booted foot, its edges blurred between dimensions.

Allura’s eyes widened.

She felt nimble, clawed fingers yank into her bun, forcing her head up, and she made a noise of pain.

Gold eyes—bright with death and unnatural things—stared down upon her, narrowed in agony. Thin lips quivered. “ _You_.”

The voice of Honerva was rough, echoing. Her fingers clenched in.

Allura cried out, attempting to push the ghost away, but her hands slipped through the transparent form, reconfiguring from the distortions her hands made. “Stop! Please stop!”

And then suddenly, it did. The hand wrenched out from her hair.

The vision of the woman disappeared. 

The princess was left gasping for breath as she leaned on her hands and knees in an abandoned classroom. Tears watered her eyes.

She shakily reached for the datapad once more. “Not again,” she cried to herself. Fear shook through her. In the midst of the classroom’s silence, she suddenly felt crazy, to think that Honerva’s ghost had just been before her. “Not again.”

The only evidence that her experience was real was the broken datapad, and the burning pain in her skull from the angry ghost ripping out strands of her hair.

* * *

Later, Princess Allura was quickly walking through the halls. On occasion, she swore she could see the haunting shadow of Honerva leaning against thresholds, waiting for her at the hallway junctions. Allura kept her bloodshot eyes downward, her proud shoulders bowed in fear and confusion.

The visions were growing worse.

In the beginning, Allura had heard only a woman crying—had seen Honerva standing on the edge of buildings, in loss. Allura had briefly surmised that perhaps in resurrecting the multiverse, their souls had been intertwined to some extent. That perhaps she were gazing at Honerva, who was still truly in the realm of the dead.

But then one day, Honerva’s tear-stricken face had turned to her. Allura had known she was looking directly at her. Gold eyes narrowed in hate.

And nothing had been the same since.

“Whoa, Allura?” interrupted the soft voice of Lance, rushed and jostled as he moved to her.

A male hand came to rest upon her arm, and it took all of her self-control not to flinch. “Allura, are you okay? Is something wrong?”

She swallowed hard. And then she raised her chin and forced a smile upon her face. “I’m fine, Lance, thank you. I just, ah, dropped my datapad.”

Concerned, brown eyes stared into her soul. She felt a brief tick of worry—Lance was perhaps not the smartest man, but he had an intuition about him that made him a caring soul. “Again?” he asked, his brows flying up. “That’s, like, the fifth time this month.”

She managed a nervous laugh. “Yes, I’m becoming clumsy, I fear. All rusty from not fighting in battle.”

His thin lips pressed together as they walked along. He gently pulled her books and broken datapad from her arms. “You look like you’ve been crying,” he murmured to her softly, for her ears alone. “Tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”

Her voice tightened up hard. “You’ve done so much to help already. Truly, I am well. I am just clumsy, and I fear what the Garrison might say if they discover I’ve ruined yet another datapad. I know they are not cheap.”

Her lie worked. The boy—a man now, really—swept his eyes over her. There was a deep concern in him, but she saw the relief as well. He managed a weak smile. “Don’t worry about the datapad. If they gripe about it, they can take it out of my salary or something.”

Her face tensed. “That would be unfair to you.”

He merrily tilted up his chin. “Anything for the lady,” he joked. And he winked.

Were she the average woman, her heart would have stuttered. She would have blushed, pleased by his affection. Lance McClain was truly a handsome man, and growing more so. But her heart ached with conflict. He did not have the traumas she did.

For as much as he tried to bridge them, there were deep chasms between them.

They both had tried to ignore them.

Allura managed a giggle, but it was strained. “You are too kind to me, you know. I am more of a burden upon you than anything else, like this.”

She caught a flash of gray from the corner of her eyes. As she walked by, she saw Honerva standing by the lockers, her beautiful face twisted in pain, hardening with hatred at the sound of Allura’s giggle.

Allura’s breath hitched, and she looked away.

Lance bumped her arm. “You’re not a burden,” he murmured to her. “You’re never a burden. You’ve just...had a lot happen. And that’s okay.”

She had not told him about the hauntings.

She bit her lip and then swallowed hard. “Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

* * *

In the evening, sometimes she shared a room with Lance. Sometimes, he would simply hold her and wipe away her tears. He knew more of her ongoing depression than most, and had been gentle with her.

Other times, his touch—for as innocently as he desired her—left her with a creeping, uneasy sensation, and she could not stand to be in his arms. Those were the times that she thought of Lotor. Of her past life, where she was not a simple teacher for humans.

That night was one of those times, and so she made a polite excuse to Lance and disappeared to her own room. It was stark without decorations. Clean. Practical. Just like the rest of her life.

Allura unzipped her uniform, leaning her forehead against a wall and breathing unsteadily. The rough material of her clothes slipped down from her shoulders. She’d lost muscle mass recently. She barely ate, especially when Lance was not around to encourage her. The result was sharp bones.

“ _Poor, pathetic Allura. All the power in the universe, and you still fear using it_!”

She flinched, her breath hitching hard as her fingers trembled. She held there for a time, squeezing her eyes shut. “Why won’t you all leave me alone,” she whispered helplessly. Tears rose to her eyes in deep pain as she slowly moved to undress herself, stepping out of the uniform until she stood in her underwear, looking down at the body she had once admired as beautiful, and feeling distant with it.

How could even Lance find her attractive now?

She pulled out her bun, her eyes watering as her thick locks fell down her shoulders. “I should be thankful,” she whispered. “I should be thankful.”

Allura moved to her dresser, her thin fingers opening up a drawer, darting through the clothes to find a nightgown.

But then the room grew cold again, and her skin goose-bumped, and in the blur of the second, she felt sharp claws dig into her back. A ghostly hand wrenched into the back of her bra, pulling her backwards. Allura cried out in surprise and pain.

Suddenly, she was slammed against the opposite wall, a steely hand wrapping around her throat. She gasped, her eyes widening as the spirit of Honerva materialized before her, with all the strength and agency of a living person.

Frozen. She felt frozen.

“Filth,” Honerva snarled to her, her reddened marks twisting with the agony of her emotion. She clenched in on Allura’s neck. “You stole my life force. You killed me, to save yourself.”

Allura’s vision pixelated as she gasped for air, fully panicked. She swiped at Honerva again, wrapping a hand around the woman’s thin, armored wrist.

Honerva crunched in again, leaning forward, her white hair floating wildly about her. “I could have brought my family back to life,” she cried. “We could have lived, if you had let yourself _die._ ”

Allura’s fingers trembled, attempting to glow. But Honerva’s spirit was unnatural in too many ways. She was quintessence herself.

Honerva’s voice quivered. “And what have you done with my life force? Nothing.” She squeezed in, allowing her claws to sink into Allura’s skin. Allura made a noise of pain, her face reddening as she tried to push Honerva away. “You lay with the human who worships you. You deny our people and the Galra. You sully the name of my family to appear blameless, when you _know_ exactly what each of us suffered.”

Blood began to trail down Allura’s neck. Her fingers were weakening upon Honerva’s wrist.

“You do not deserve happiness,” Honerva hissed, her thin lip curling in anger to reveal a sharp, unnatural fang. “Your happiness should be mine. Your life force is _mine_. So I will take it back.” She leaned forward, her voice a whisper. “And you will be the dead one.”

Suddenly, Allura made a choked noise of pain. The entire room tilted as she felt the universe begin to seep from her.

Draining.

Honerva was actively draining her.

Tears streamed down her red face as she weakly attempted to struggle. But Honerva had her now—had been growing in power and seething hate for every month that Allura had remained quiet. It was too late.

Allura’s bare knees began to buckle. The veins beneath her brown skin began to darken to black as Honerva pulled quintessence from her. The glow of her hand on her neck brightened with the transfer. Honerva’s judgmental gold eyes narrowed upon her, watching every twitch of pain and terror in great satisfaction.

And then suddenly, Honerva’s hand was wrenched away.

Allura failed to breathe as she crumpled against the wall, her eyes halfway rolling up. Life siphoned back into her as the transfer cut off. She weakly grasped for a support beam, but her fingers missed. Her knees buckled fully, and she slid to the floor in a twist of limbs.

As she lay there, gasping on the floor, her neck stinging in pain, she caught sight of a dark, familiar boot. A leg.

A third person was in the room, materializing between dimensions, the edges of the leg blurred, just like Honerva was.

The being blurred forward, charging Honerva silently. There was a flash of dark armor, white hair. Sharp, bright claws. A male voice, usually so smooth as velvet, was rough. “You will not harm her.”

“She killed us,” Honerva hissed in return. “Remember your own wasted body. _She_ did that.”

The being hesitated. There was a hitched breath. “You will not harm her,” he spoke again.

Honerva cried out in frustration. She charged forward.

The man grabbed onto her, his lightning-fast reflexes a blur between the dimensions. “Be gone from here,” he demanded sharply. “Go back to father.”

On the ground, Allura rasped out a breath, turning onto her back, her chest heaving. She caught sight of a purple face, strong shoulders.

_Lotor._   
  


Honerva searched Lotor's eyes in silence. And then she bared her fangs at him. He responded by curling his lip, his own fangs longer and sharper with his Galran heritage.

Then, suddenly, Honerva hissed in frustration, recoiling. Her beautiful form dissipated, until the only coldness in the room emanated from the remaining being.

Allura’s consciousness faded in and out from trauma. Her vision pixelated hard. She weakly attempted to reach out to the image of Lotor—for what, she did not know.

Suddenly, he turned around. His form was perfect and complete, as handsome as when he had once kissed her, his white hair floating with the air of death that so marked Honerva. And when he moved, it was with an unnatural grace not held by the living. He kneeled before her, his too-bright eyes narrowing upon her in concern.

Allura was so out of it, she could not even feel embarrassed that she was mostly naked before him. She simply stared up, gasping for air and wheezing, attempting to reach for him.

He bit his lip, then reached for her uniform nearby, draping it over her. “You will not die,” he murmured to her. His voice echoed like that of a ghost’s, but it was warm in ways she did not understand. “I will not allow it.”

In her pain, Allura felt only the fleeting pressure of a large, masculine hand. The hand reached up to touch her cheek, a soothing coolness seeping from the fingers. Claws gently prickled against her temple and ear from the action.

Allura’s watery eyes stared out, bleary.

Slowly, the wounds upon her neck from Honerva’s claws sealed over, and the acrid black of her veins sunk back into healthy, muted tones, her skin growing more vibrant.

“I see your misery, princess, where as she does not,” he murmured, even as he healed her. The edges of his long, white hair tickled her face. His voice grew derisive. “But she does make a point, you know. Why _do_ you sleep with the human, I wonder.”

And then suddenly, he was gone, his form materializing out as a wisp. Allura was left lying on the floor, her uniform her only covering from the cold of the room.

And tears rose to her eyes, in bewilderment and pain and shock.

Allura slowly sat up from the floor, clinging tight to the uniform Lotor had draped over her to protect her modesty. She feared now that she was still being watched—that he was still there with her, somehow. She shakily reached for her neck, feeling for the deep claw wounds Honerva had carved into her, only to feel smooth skin in return.

Her alto voice shook. “You know why I do what I do,” she whispered to the air. “You killed my people and tried to destroy the universe in your insanity. And now, I’m trying to move on.”

All the training in the world had not prepared her for ghostly encounters. Such beings were said not to exist, save for a few wild tales from old Alteans, back before the planet had fallen.

As she held there, trembling on the tile floor, a familiar form re-materialized, hovering cross-legged upon her bed. Emperor Lotor of the Galra sat, back straight, chin high. His white hair still floated about him in a wind that did not exist, save for the invisible quintessence fields that swept through the dimension.

His elegant neck snapped to her, his face tightening in irritation. “Killed _your_ people? Are they not also mine? And what of the trillions who suffered because you assassinated me without a plan to replace me accordingly, but ah—” he raised a long, clawed finger—“they are Galrans or other races, lesser beings. Not Alteans. Perhaps that is why you discount them so.”

Her fingers clenched into her uniform tightly in increasing fright. She knew this ghostly visage had saved her from certain death, but there was an edge to his words still. A haunting grudge. “I—I discount no one. I gave _everything_ to save everyone, including the Galra.” She did not move from where she was sitting on the floor.

“You discounted me,” he snapped. But then his face twisted, and he breathed out, choosing to nick his claws into the blanket upon her bed. “How worthless did you think me, to toss me like a rag doll when I was ready to give you everything.”

Allura’s eyes watered again as she stared at him. He was so terribly handsome, his face so incredibly pulled in pain. Words caught in her throat. “I thought I loved you, before I knew what you were hiding." 

He did not look up at her, instead creating another tear in her blanket with a mild swipe of his claws. The sharp edges of them glinted in the harsh lights. “You do not know of what you speak. But I have seen you walk these halls with a broken line in your shoulders. I have seen you refuse food, to punish yourself for all the lives you couldn't save. You spread your legs for a human and then cry uncontrollably in the showers as you wash him from you. My anger and frustration cannot last against your shame.”

Her face reddened.

He dared turn to her, narrowing his eyes. “Is it simply that you desire companionship? A distraction? Is that why you tolerate such a boy touching you?”

Allura looked down, haunted and afraid. Her fingers were still shaking. “Go away,” she whispered. “Please.”

His full lips pressed together. He blinked at her. “A _human_ ,” he argued. “He will die long before you. If you bear him children, you will see them age before you do.” He waved his hand in confusion, irritation. “He does not know your language, nor does he care to learn. He cannot make you happy.”

The broken princess held the uniform closer to her bare body. She shifted, her long curls fanning to hide her face. “What does my happiness matter to you? Are you not pleased by what I am now, if you hate me so?”

There was a silence between them.

“…I am displeased by you,” he declared finally. “I am displeased that you waste away. I gave my life to preserve our people and our culture. But you spit on even what legacy I have by desiring death. By not _living_.” He petulantly smashed his fist into the bed. The action reverberated through the metal.

Allura flinched.

His clawed fist uncurled. “Is this all that you are now?” he challenged her. “A weepy mouse to be pushed around? You kill me in the quintessence field for my actions, and then you cry about it?”

She dared to look at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “You’d gone insane. You had weapons that transformed into a _monster_. What choice did I have?”

“Perhaps I’d have been more docile had you not fired on me when I pleaded with you for peace,” he hissed.

She cried helplessly, “I didn’t want you to die. I wanted you to stop acting like you were _justified_ in murdering people relying on you for help!" 

He raised his finger. “You knew exactly what you wanted when you tossed me, which was vengeance.” His voice tightened. “So you should…hold your head high. Own your actions. And do not get on your knees for the unworthy, simply to punish yourself.”

Allura wiped her face, blinking rapidly. “You—you want me to be _proud_ of killing you?” she echoed incredulously. "Of all the insanity that has happened?" 

His face twitched. “I want you to live,” he retorted. “For a short time, I felt justified by your misery, but gazing upon you like this pains me, truly. I can no longer turn my face from you, nor can I allow my mother to accost you when you are already little more than a human’s possession.”

The ring upon her hand burned. She tried to hide it within the folds of her uniform.

His eyes—so alien and unnaturally bright—searched hers. “Do not do this to yourself,” he commanded. It was almost a plea. “Do not spread your legs for a man you do not love. Do not starve yourself to feel pangs of hunger when there is so much you can still do with your life.”

The princess could not hold his gaze. Her voice shook. “Go away,” she whispered again.

His broad shoulders fell. His body softly settled from its hovering upon her bed, his cold presence sinking into the blankets. “If you fail to eat one more time,” he threatened. “So help me, Allura, I will reappear to you. And I will force you to eat.”

She swallowed hard. “I said,” she repeated, her weak voice strengthening, “go _away_.” She raised her chin, even as her body trembled. “I demand you leave.”

His handsome face split at that, in the slightest hint of delight. “Hn. Is that the true princess I hear? So haughty and self-righteous?” His head tilted, his long white hair streaming down his shoulder in a soft, floating wave. “I missed her.”

And suddenly, his form grew more transparent, until all that remained was the imprint of his fanged smile and bright eyes—a scar between dimensions. Then even it faded out, leaving only her ripped blanket as evidence that the mysterious ghost of Emperor Lotor had appeared to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all. I'd written this story a long time ago last year, and I suppose I never uploaded it because it's an angsty, kinda dark post-s8 story. But given how quiet lotura fandom has gone on AO3, I figure...why not, haha. I tried to tag this thing as well as I could. 
> 
> I've always been a bit fascinated about what Allura's life could have been like had she survived the s8 ending. I felt like s7-s8 depicted an Allura who was increasingly depressed and dissociated from or passive with the people around her. And it seemed like her unsteadiness really was triggered by the fight with Lotor in s6, where she questioned trusting even herself. In my viewing of the show, it felt like Allura was never as happy again as she once was with Lotor. 
> 
> So, I guess this story functions as an exploration of Allura's mind-state and what really drove her into Lance's arms, as well as the curious capacity she has to...resurrect things, ahem, and possibly find happiness and purpose again in unexpected ways. I was also intrigued by the s8 dark entity taking on Lotor's form to haunt/tempt Allura, so I suppose that's where Ghostor comes from, haha. 
> 
> If you made it this far, thank you for reading! Please feed a starving author with a review! Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following awesome people for reviewing last time! 
> 
> LunarMagnolia: Thank you so much for your review! Gosh, I have felt that annoying itch too, about how happy Allura could possibly be in a post-s8 universe! And yooo Lotor is definitely a salt dispenser in all of this, LOL. I really appreciate your extended analysis on all of this and especially your patience with all of the messy emotions and feelings. Thank you again for your review! 
> 
> Asennnaa: Ahhh yes, trust Lotor to speak the hard words that Allura needs to hear, haha. But in doing so, hopefully working toward a better place as well, because I think it’s all rather painful for him to see her like this and so unhappy! It breaks my heart too, what canon ended up doing with Allura's character. Thank you for your very kind review! 
> 
> Star-gazer: You didn’t watch s8? Oof, you lucky person, haha. Yeah, it showed Allura just progressively giving up more of herself until the point she willingly walked into her own death, despite said death being totally unnecessary for fixing the problems at hand. Yeah, I totally hear you! Even in a new environment, I feel like Allura just would have so much offer people because of her intelligence and capabilities and experience! Thank you for reviewing! 
> 
> Geeeny: Wow, thank you for your thoughts here! Yeah, I’m really intrigued as well by just the level of what all Allura has sacrificed within the canon show, and where that would land her had she survived. There are probably other things that she could do, but just when I started writing, it sort of felt…right that she would go into teaching, given her motivations and likely just exhaustion at that point. And ahhh I’m so happy you like the way I characterize their arguments! Thank you! 
> 
> Wallflwr97: Gosh, yeah it really does feel like Lance is particularly unmatched with Allura, given how much in canon he made fun of or discounted her culture and couldn’t understand literally anything that mattered to her personally. Whereas like, Lotor, he could understand those things on a very personal level. So I think as the story goes on, we’ll definitely see that tension between Lance/Allura/Lotor play out in different ways as feelings and realizations shift! And guh, yeah, there’s a lot of Allura hate out there that tries to demonize Allura for the s6 plot twist, but I really hope this story can explore all the tensions within what was shown! And Ghostor spice? Hm, I’m afraid I can’t give too many spoilers, but this story will definitely move toward Lotura as endgame! Thank you so much again for your support!

Several days passed without further incident. The poltergeist of Honerva did not return, and neither did the powerful ghost of Lotor. Allura remained in a daze once more, rubbing her throat in awe when no one was looking—fearful that the whole encounter had been some particularly vivid hallucination. She’d looked over her shoulder every time she undressed. She faked illness with Lance to avoid him and others as she hyperventilated through the silence of the night.

That evening, she found herself sitting alone in her personal quarters once more, designing a learning plan for students about the dangers and benefits of weeblums. She sat upon her bed wearing thin pajamas, occasionally staring at her emaciated wrist in curiosity of the wasting away of her own body.

A plate of crackers sat beside her, hidden between books. She’d gnawed on one before the food turned to ash in her mouth, and she pulled the cracker away from her, unable to eat it.

She was in the middle of writing a sentence when the room began to darken and grow cold. The plate beside her began to hover, and her pen streaked off the paper in fright as it suddenly zoomed by her and crashed into a nearby wall.

She gasped as a dark form materialized before her.

It was Lotor, who stood tall as a wraith before her, his strong, muscled arm outstretched toward the wall.

Glowing, blue eyes narrowed upon her, white hair flickering about him like flames. Every line in his body was tense in irritation. His velvet voice raised in great displeasure. “Do you intentionally seek to infuriate me?” He lowered his arm. “Did I, or did I not, say that I would return if you failed to eat again?”

Allura sat on the bed, clutching her pen, eyes wide. Her lips gaped open. “You were—you’ve been watching me still?”

He turned away from her, as if incensed even by her image. “I gave you three days, on good faith that you might heed my warnings. I return from the realm of the dead to see you crumbling into even less than what you once were.”

Something in Lotor’s voice sparked a wave of rebellion in Allura. She clenched her fist around her pen and dared to call, “So you destroy my plate of crackers for it?”

His head turned to the broken ceramic now in shatters upon the tile, her meager helping of bread-based squares scattered about. He sniffed. “Such is hardly definable as sustenance—and even that, you have refused. I watched you set it aside myself.”

Silence overcame them.

The ghost turned back to her, the lines of his body blurring as he moved. Fear was in him, spurning on his ire with her. “Have you nothing to say?”

Allura swallowed hard, caught between anger and fright herself. “Why are you so worried about my eating habits?” she demanded weakly. “Our race will not die without me.”

His lips pressed together hard. The shadows in the room seemed to darken and bend, just for him. “And are you so blind to yourself?” he challenged in disbelief. “All that I had to offer you—your people, your inheritance at Oriande—and you toss it aside to kill yourself slowly. All the blessings you have. The *life* you still possess to yet carry out what little legacy I have of revitalizing our shared culture.” His voice broke in jealousy. “And you waste it.”

Her breath hitched. She reached out her hand. “Then take it. A life for a life, if you desire one so much.”

The look he gave her next was one of great disturbance, as if she had physically struck him. He back-stepped from her, his white hair floating before him before it recalibrated to float along his shoulders once more. “You would give me your life,” he said incredulously. “The man you killed for taking life—you would ask me to take yours now.”

Her hand hesitated in the air between them. She lowered her thin fingers. “You wanted me to die, once before.” 

That did it. His face darkened, his lip pulling up in a curl of fury. “In the midst of head trauma and quintessence exposure, yes. I said and did many things, as did you. Neither of us were thinking clearly, and neither were your fellow paladins. Do not do me the dishonor of speaking to it.” His velvet voice broke. “Do not offer me your life again.”

Allura looked down at her hands and the books around her. She felt tired all of a sudden, as if she were swimming in concrete. “Very well,” she whispered.

He paused. The ghost raised his hand, and his fingers glowed purple. Suddenly, the papers around her swept away from her, scattering into a dozen directions.

Allura did not move, but simply stared down at her hands.

Lotor blurred forward. “Are you not irritated that I have destroyed your organization?”

“It doesn't really matter,” she whispered. 

She felt his cold presence before her, and her heart stalled when cool, calloused fingers suddenly reached under her chin, tilting up her face. He felt fully solid to her, just as Honerva did. She swore she could feel blood rushing through him.

She allowed him to hold her chin, even in want of his touch.

“Do you take pleasure from anything in life?” he murmured.

Her eyes began to water. And it was there, in his hand, that Princess Allura’s heart cracked, and she blinked several times, her chest heaving with tears. “No,” she whispered. Her voice broke. “Not even milkshakes.”

The ghost stared down upon her, his own face unreadable. “That is not acceptable.”

His fingers slipped from her chin slowly, as if in a caress. And his form dematerialized back into a wisp.

Allura thought for a time that perhaps he had disappeared.

But then she flinched when he phased through the door, carrying with him a pan and some utensils. The ghost fairly tossed them at her, and she barely caught them.

She found herself staring down at a warm loaf of banana bread, likely stolen from Hunk’s kitchen.

The ghost huffed at her, standing before her in great irritation. “I am Emperor Lotor of the Galra. My word is law. I order you to eat of this food, which is pleasing to my senses and should be pleasing to yours as well.”

The teary-eyed woman stared down incredulously at the pan, wiping her face. “What?”

He grabbed for her hand and forced her to grip the fork, then pulled away. “Eat,” he demanded. “Now.”

The Altean princess swallowed hard, still on the brink of a breakdown. She froze like that, simply holding her fork, staring at him in shock as tears slipped down her face.

Lotor stared at her expectantly, his eyes moving between the fork and then her mouth.

When she did not move again, he huffed in frustration. His armor shifted as he kneeled down beside her, and he swiped his claw into the warm top of the loaf, spearing off a piece. “What a conundrum you are,” he said to her. “You resurrect entire multiverses, and yet you are a child who refuses to eat.”

Her eyes widened as they flickered to him. She felt a little spark of irritation light within her. “I am not a child."

He raised up the little piece of banana bread. “You certainly are in this tick.” And then he gently shoved the piece into her mouth and held her chin shut, his brows furrowing together. “Now, eat, princess.”

Allura’s breath shuddered as her skin goose-bumped from his touch once more. But she dutifully began to chew the little piece he had offered her. And her breath hitched again when she realized that this unhappy ghost of Emperor Lotor worried for her health more than anyone else.

The banana bread tasted as ash to her—all things did anymore—but she swallowed it back, and Lotor stared at her in satisfaction before swiping his claws into the bread loaf, holding a larger piece up to her. “Again.” 

* * *

Lotor came to be a strange guardian. Princess Allura could feel his presence, even when he was not visible. It seemed his ability to manifest on the living plane waned in time with the rising of the sun and grew strongest at night. But that did not stop him from being ever-present—a coldness in the corner of her classroom. A coldness at her side at the Garrison buffet line, nudging her to grab an extra helping of mashed potatoes. To the outsider, it simply appeared that Princess Allura had a small appetite again after her latest “illness.” But more than once, she felt invisible, cold fingers caress down her hand, moving her body along to grab more food. It inspired a strange blush upon her cheeks.

“You’re trying to fatten me up,” she complained under breath, staring at her plate of breads and puddings and potatoes.

The presence beside her nudged her along without apology.

Lotor had concluded by himself that Allura did not feel like chewing, and so he guided her to soups and other soft, warm foods. His persistence was weak at breakfast, when he was most fragile on the dimensional plane, and powerful by dinner, strong-arming her to place a second helping of chocolate pudding upon her plate—and to grab for a protein shake as well.

The worst of it was that he was smart. So terribly smart. When she ate in the dining hall, then everyone was around to watch her eat. And food was such a valued resource that everyone looked at her judgmentally if she threw any out. The princess, caught within Lotor’s trap, was forced to eat every bite he’d moved her to get, on the principle of peer pressure.

Allura feared that it was not entirely altruistic—that Lotor found it all to be a silent revenge. To force her to live and eat ash, when she wanted nothing more than to lay down in bed and sleep forever.

But she found his constant presence comforting, in ways.

Even comforting enough to anticipate it, and to feel the loss of him when he was gone in the brightest hours of the day. 

* * *

Across the dimensions, the ghost of Lotor paced, staring at the sun in irritation before turning back around to pace again.

Another deep voice, soft, echoed from behind. “How fairs your experiment, my son?”

He looked up, his slit pupils narrowing upon the soul of his father—who was smooth-faced and youthful in a way Lotor had never known prior to death. This being before him was truly his father. The one who had so achingly desired a child with Honerva of Altea.

Lotor looked away, voice roughening. “Not much has changed.” His white floated about him uneasily as he looked at the sun once more, then down at his hands, which still wavered from the waning strength. “The princess eats only at my command still, and she barely responds, even when I goad her into an argument.” He ran a hand through his hair, frazzled. “And she has returned to the bed of that—that human, now that she no longer can feign illness. I know she has. I must return to her immediately.”

The once great Emperor Zarkon stood in the great sunlight that bathed the crossway between dimensions. Lotor could feel his eyes, tracking him.

“Why,” asked the emperor who was his father, “do you care for her so much, given your history with her?”

There was no judgement in Zarkon’s voice. It was a strange intonation for Lotor to hear—that his true father was capable of listening, of understanding. 

Lotor’s face twisted in pain, and he dared to gaze upon Zarkon, meeting his red eyes. “You question my relationships while you still love that demon who wears mother’s face?”

The older Galran man paused, his plated brows knitting together. “Do not speak of your mother in this way.”

“Then do not question my intentions with the princess, when you would coddle my mother after all she has done to the universe.”

Zarkon’s face hardened in confusion. “But Honerva did not kill me. The Princess Allura murdered you, directly. After you pleaded with her, even.”

The younger man’s neck snapped back to him, his eyes narrowing to slits. “I woke in death to realize I’d nearly destroyed the space-time continuum, with a mecha I do not even remember building.” His voice broke. “Allura fired upon me with many accusations, but her actions and diplomatic failings pale in comparison to my own. I accuse her of endangering the universe, but it was not her hand which ripped holes into the fabric of reality. It was my own, and through me, yours.” 

“Lotor—”

He pointed his finger, face pulling in great pain. “It is _you and mother’s_ fault. _All_ of it leads back to you, with your worship of quintessence destroying the universe and forcing the rest of us to desperate measures.”

The fallen emperor quieted, his plated face twitching in a sudden pain. His dark brows knitted together, and he jaw clenched. Shame flickered across him. “My son—”

“—Don’t,” Lotor hissed. His voice broke. “You hold no right to lecture or comfort me.”

Zarkon remained silent for a time. His red eyes misted. He could not hold Lotor’s gaze.

The prince’s breath hitched, and he turned around, shakily running frazzled fingers through his long hair. His throat tightened up. “Now. Allura has restored the multiverse to undo all the madness and has encouraged ongoing alliances with our people. But yet she cages and torments herself, in ways that are most degrading. I cannot allow it continue.” 

The father asked, voice soft and halted, “In what ways does the daughter of Alfor degrade herself?” He had intentionally remained separate from interacting with the universe, knowing the suffering he had caused.

Lotor’s voice tightened. “You do not need to know what she does, but perhaps mother can shed some light on her own part in Allura’s misery.” The sun had reached peak and was beginning to wane, which meant his form could more strongly solidify on the human plane. With any luck, his time away from Allura had given him energy stores to remain with her through the full of the night, and perhaps even into morning.

He turned in a flair of his hair and disappeared down one of the great crosswalks between dimensions, his form beginning to blur from the differences in the energy fields.

Allura, he knew, needed him far more than Zarkon needed an answer.

And perhaps that was all the answer Zarkon needed. 

* * *

Lotor first materialized into Allura’s room, expectant that perhaps she would be there, to change out of her uniform for the Garrison dinner buffet. But he gazed around the sparse room—so cold, without feeling, and his white brows narrowed in concern. “Allura?” he called for her.

He stepped forward and only then discovered in surprise that his boot had sloshed through an increasing puddle…which streamed outward. From the washroom, which echoed with the sound of running water.

His eyes blew wide. “Allura!”

He raised his hand, forcing the bathroom door to slam open. Another wave of clear, puddling water streamed out with the action, and it was there, in the middle of the destruction, that he saw her.

Allura sat naked in an overflowing bathtub, her white curls streaming about her listlessly, her face leaning against her knees as she hugged herself.

Lotor’s breath hitched, his floating hair streaming behind him as he pitched forward, reaching out to her, fearing that she had drowned herself. The faucet flipped off on his command as he ran through the puddles and fell to his knees in a slosh.

He reached out to her, sweeping aside her heavy, wet locks, grabbing for her chin. “Princess,” he commanded roughly. “Look at me.”

In doing so, he unraveled her stance. The woman’s hands slipped from her knees limply, her legs sinking in the ice-cold water. She was shivering, he could feel. And though the water distorted her naked body, he could see a few mild love bites upon her collarbones and lower. 

Lotor swallowed hard, his hand softening upon her chin.

Bleary, bloodshot eyes stared up at him from a wet face, her nose and cheeks reddened from crying.

“What has happened?” he demanded, releasing her chin. With little worry for her modesty, he grabbed onto her arm and pulled her from the sloshing waters. The weak woman, still so thin and diminished, meekly allowed herself to be moved, leaning against him, unable to support her own weight. “Why would you even—?”

He hooked an arm under hers to hold her as he reached for a nearby bath towel on a rack. He unraveled it in a snap, his face in a twist. He was burning up an incredible amount of his storages for the evening, to manipulate so many physical objects at once. He had to get her safe before he faded out. Talking would take energy too.

Lotor wrapped the large, fluffy bath towel around her, picking her up in his arms to carry her to her bed. Her thin, long legs hung off his arm, the bath towel scrunching between them. She shivered against his chest, her warm breath fogging against his armor.

It was in strained silence that he held her to him, in fear that letting go would mean some other disaster. But he gently lowered her onto her bed, focusing upon her face as her bath towel unraveled at her hips.

“Tell me what has happened,” he demanded softly.

Allura blinked up at him, trembling. Her full, blue lips quivered. “Lance wants to—” She swallowed hard, tears brimming in her eyes. “The engagement.”

The word meant nothing to him. He stared at her with increasing consternation.

She tried again, voice weak. “Humans, they have…times of commitment before they marry.” She blinked, and tears streaked down her face. “He wants to marry soon. And I should be happy. But…” She trailed off, looking ashamed of herself. Her voice softened to a whisper. “I am not.”

The great Princess of Altea—arguably one of the strongest beings in the universe—lay before him naked and broken and shivering.

And Lotor had never felt more powerless in his entire existence.

He pulled her bath towel more securely over her, protecting her modesty. And then he grabbed the blankets from the edge of her bed, wrapping her up as she shivered. “Do not marry him. If this is your reaction to a swearing of fealty, then the union is death to you.”

Allura’s breath hitched. “He’s all I have.”

“You can do better than this, I am certain,” Lotor retorted in worry. He turned about, staring at the massive puddle upon her floor. He raised his hand. And slowly, droplet by droplet, the water raised into the air. He moved his hand, sweeping the water back into the bathtub as it drained. “This is beyond a tantrum, Allura. I thought you dead for a tick.”

She hid her pale face into her pillow, her white, wet curls tangling about her cheek, where her pink markings did not glimmer with life. “I am…s-supposed to be happy. I told him I was h-happy.”

“Then you lied to him.” He turned back around in disbelief and worry. “You are not happy. Or else you would not be halfway drowning as you bathe. What _in the stars_ were you thinking?”

Allura did not answer for a time, until she swallowed hard. Another cold chill wracked through her. “I was not drowning,” she argued weakly.

Lotor’s mind raced back to his memory of the little love bites upon her collarbone—no doubt, a sexual encounter upon her and Lance’s agreement to marry. His face twisted in great pain. “You did not answer my question. What were you thinking? What if I were not here to haunt you? Would you have flooded the whole hall? Truly drowned yourself?”

Her breath halted hard beneath the blankets. Her pale cheeks tightened in shame as she shivered. “I was attempting to—to ease some aching muscles, with the cold. I lost…track of things, in thought.”

“No,” he disagreed, fully frustrated with her. “You were attempting to numb yourself entirely.” He longed to reach out to her, to offer her his own heat. But his manifested body was hardly warmer than an early spring day. “You could have been injured or worse.”

Allura flinched in the midst of her trembling.

Lotor swallowed hard as he stared down at her, swallowing back further words of frustration. He worried now that perhaps he could not leave her alone for any extended stretch of time. Water was dangerous. Eating utensils—could he trust her with them? Her hair pins? 

He kneeled down beside her bed, his eyes only inches from her own. She seemed small to him. Vulnerable. And yet he knew within her was the power of Oriande, and all of the ancient Altean ancestors who dared to tame the universe. He softened his voice. His physical ability to touch her was already waning, but he dared to brush a wet lock from her cheek. “What must you do to reject a proposal from a human?”

“I am already his,” she whispered, “in all but name.”

“Remove your mind from such,” he commanded. “For you are not his in name, and to outer society, that is what matters. I ask you again, what must you do to reject him?”

Her eyes watered hard. “I cannot,” she confessed softly. “He offers stability—his family is kind to me, for all the differences I have. And…he is not displeasing to me, when he touches me. It’s only after that I feel ill.”

Lotor’s face twitched. “Princess Allura of Altea, defender of the universe and paladin of Voltron. How far you have fallen, to willingly become—whatever his second name is—Allura McClain. A paltry teacher for bratty human children. A set of legs for your spoiled husband to spread and further breed his kind. I am sure he enjoys having such a trophy. Marking you on your breasts as if you were a beast to be branded.” 

That got a reaction out of her. Her cheeks flamed up. She pressed her full, trembling lips together. “It is not dishonorable, to live a simple life and…to please someone after all that has happened. And you _agreed_ with me, that my diplomacy skills are not worthy of any title of honor.” Her face broke. “I’ve done all I could to fix things. I am…I’m where I need to be now, to maintain balance.”

He grabbed her chin, turning her to face him more directly. “ _Is_ this balance?” he challenged, voice hardening in pain. “Is this truly the legacy of Allura of Altea, the inheritor of all the deep knowledge of Oriande? The restorer of the multiverse?” His brows knitted in righteous passion. “If your self-inflicted punishments in any way involve our history, then I release you from it, here and now. Stop bowing to humans in the ways you do to punish yourself." 

Allura’s face screwed up hard. Her breath hitched several times. She looked up at him in total loss, helpless. “Truly, I…I am trying to find happiness again and purpose. You judge me for all I am, but through the Galaxy Garrison, I can help little ones to grow and become great ambassadors for peace and space exploration. Is that not a worthy cause, in support of your own legacy, even?”

Lotor’s clawed fingers slipped away from her chin, his face haunted. His fingertips—growing transparent— trailed down her cold, wet cheek, which was gaunt with starvation.

The shivering woman pulled the towel around herself with trembling, pale fingers, and she awkwardly moved to sit up, her thick, wet curls slipping away from the water stains of her pillow. “I am trying to be content. I thought the cold water would…wake me up, perhaps. And then everything would be—” Her voice caught.

_Everything would be better._

She could not speak, her throat tightening hard because somewhere, within her, she knew her reality was far from the one she’d dreamed about. Her eyes welled with hot tears.

His own face pulled in pain. “Allura.” His form had already begun to grow more transparent from the massive expenditure of energy. But he reached out to touch her hand.

Her fingers wrapped around his instinctively as her lips pulled in a sob. “I am sorry I frightened you,” she cried softly, voice wavering hard. “ _I_ am frightened as well. All feels distant to me. I...I cannot trust my own senses." 

Her small, dark fingers were cold—colder than his own—and still trembling. Her tears streaked fast down her cheek as her fingers began to slip through his, a reminder that his existence upon the material plane was unnatural.

Lotor searched her eyes, his own unnaturally bright gaze misting oddly, his floating locks warping about him as he began to fade out. “My own senses failed me once as well, when I lost control,” he confessed quickly, voice carrying an edge of pain. He tried to hold onto her hand, his face tightening at the realization he no longer could. “But do not punish yourself for surviving. Please.” 

Allura searched his eyes, his imaging blurring before her as he faded back to the realm of the dead.

* * *

The next day when Lotor returned, able to reform on the plane of the living, he found Princess Allura in the middle of undressing for bed. His form materialized by her bed, but she did not flinch this time, nor did she pause in her actions. Her uniform fell from her thin body, and she kicked it aside as she fished about for her sleeping pajamas.

Lotor watched her silently, his heart sinking when he saw the gold ring still flashing upon her wedding finger. “You have not rejected him, then.”

Her voice was tired as she pulled out a shirt, then wiggled into it. Her ribs stretched tight against her skin with the action. And then the baggy shirt hid her form entirely from him. “It’s complicated.”

“Of all the things in your life, this particular issue is not,” he argued. He waved his large hand. “Your human lover desires that you marry him. You do not wish to marry him. Therefore, do not.”

She turned her exhausted eyes to him. “I have nowhere else to go,” she said haltingly. “The Altean colony does not want a princess—nor do they need one, for they govern themselves. I have burned my bridges with the Galra through your death. I suppose I could…wander aimlessly through the stars in hopes of finding people in need, but to what end? Most people fear my powers. No one desires to house me except for those upon Earth.”

Lotor beheld her. Her eyes were still bloodshot, her hair in a tangle. She was the most undone and yet the most beautiful princess he had ever known. “…I desire you,” he challenged.

Her white brows knitted in great pain. She turned around, her curls bouncing with the action. She seemed a bit healthier since she’d started eating more—the sharp of her cheek was not so gaunt as it had once been. “But you are dead.” Her voice tightened hard in pain. “In part, by my own hand.”

“And you, princess, are the only one in the universe who can bring me back.”

Allura froze. Her fingers tightened in on the pajama pants in her hands, her expression pulling in great pain. “Yes, but do you realize what chaos that would bring? Not the least of which being that your last words had to do with demands for a New Altean Empire and the genocide of the Galra.”

He huffed at her, baring a fang. “Of course, you would bring that up.”

She turned back to him in pain. “It is a concerning threat, if you must know.” She somewhat disjointedly worked into her pajama pants. There were few graceful ways to put on pants in the presence of others. “And I’m quite _done_ with empires and kingdoms and politics, I really am.”

The ghost leaned forward. “My words were spoken in the heat of argument,” he deadpanned. “Mixed with quintessence exposure as well, which you know corrupts people to act without critical function. Surely, you must not think that I actually _desire_ such a fruitless labor—to commit the sins of my father but simply change the name.”

Her blue and purple eyes stared up into his as she tightened the drawstring on her pajama pants. “I know you have forgiven me,” she said, voice wavering. “And truly, I better understand your position as well and mourn you. But that does not negate what I know you can do.”

Lotor stepped forward. “And is this why you prefer I remain as I am?”

“Yes. How in the world would I explain otherwise, even?” Her voice grew airy. “Oh, yes, I killed this emperor for hundreds of counts of murder, but he has been haunting me for some time, so I have brought him back to life because I…missed him?”

“Oh, princess.” His voice turned. He moved closer to her, beholding her. “I missed you too.”

She back-stepped, swallowing hard. “I cannot bring you back.”

He huffed in frustration. “Have I not proven my intentions? When I dragged you from your bathtub, and wiped away your tears, and begged you not to marry a man who would make you cry?”

“And what,” she asked, voice breaking, “intentions do you have with me, to that end? Why do you pursue life with me in any way?” 

The ghost moved to float cross-legged in the air, leaning his elbow on his knee. He remained quiet for a time, his white brows scrunching together. And then he airily waved his hand. “The fact is, Allura, if you need an ex-emperor to avoid becoming a trophy yourself, then I am readily available.”

Her eyes widened. “…What?”

“I have heard, wandering these halls, that the Galra do not desire emperorship any longer. I would be as much of a defunct historical remnant as you, perhaps even teaching in this miserable excuse of a learning facility.” His too-bright, blue eyes searched her own. “But we would be remnants together.”

The princess’s breath hitched. “You—but I—I am with Lance. It’s already been decided.”

“—Oh, come now, Allura,” he chided her. “Do you honestly think I could not be a better booty call than that human who parades you about as a prize?” He leaned forward, his lips inches from her own. “Would you not rather parade me about? To allow ourselves the pleasure this universe denied us?” 

The woman froze before him. “How do you even know what _booty call_ means?” she demanded, voice in a strangle. 

“Eavesdropping on conversations within the Galaxy Garrison is most informative,” he deadpanned. And then he reached forward and brushed away one of her curls. He wove his finger around the soft lock. “Think on it, for I cannot force you to restore me to life. And truly, there are benefits to interdimensional existence that I would miss.” He leaned forward. “But if I did nothing more than inspire you to eat and enjoy something once again, then I will have had a fulfilling second life at your side.” His lips stretched in a devilish way. “And I could accost you openly for how you ravaged my rulership. We could squabble often. But perhaps not when we are high on quintessence.”

And then his cold finger slipped away from her lock to brush against her reddened cheek. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus continues our journey into the soap opera that is canon-based Lotura, haha. I feel like it’s really difficult to hold in tension all the massive consequences of each of their actions, and then the underlying reality that they were both handed some pretty bad, unwinnable deals, while also being pushed by external forces to heighten said violence/strife. So I hope this chapter handles that well? Allura is definitely not in a good spot mentally at this point, and Lotor is also having to grapple with his own limitations and hurts as well as someone who’s also lost significant agency. But…mayhap our space elves will not have to be so unhappy forever! 
> 
> Anyway, I hope for what it’s worth that the drama is meaningful here? It feels cathartic to write something where they do in fact have conversations about what happened and what’s still going wrong? 
> 
> Please review with your thoughts or constructive criticisms (I’m always open for critiques that help capture a blind spot in the writing, etc.), or your ideas or requests! Thank you! 
> 
> Also, I wanted to post here that The Haunting has a piece of fanart! Gracie Buns was so kind to draw [a sad Allura](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/186709938449/graciebunsart-the-lightning-strikes-again-made) last year while reading an initial draft of this story. Please check out and support her work, thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following awesome people for reviewing last time: EtincelleDOR, LunarMagnolia, Asennnaa, NickyADon, Star-gazer, gabi_lotura, Skulleh, VoidAbyss, and Wallflwr97! 
> 
> EtincelleDOR: Ahh thank you dear for your kind review! I was hoping for a realistic portrayal of depression based off how Allura was behaving within s6-s8. It feels like even the show brushed off the concerning implications of Allura’s behavior in canon, and I wanted so badly for her to be genuinely happy again, guh! And yaaas, Lotor is so worried for her! Thank you again for reading and reviewing! 
> 
> LunarMagnolia: Honestly, oh man, I could use a Ghostor forcing me to go on with my life too, LOL. Make me eat my veggies please. XD And gosh, yeah, I really like Lotor has a right to blow up at Zarkon for all that his father has done to create an unwinnable environment. I’m hoping maybe we’ll see more of Zarkon in the future. But in the meantime, thank you as always for your support! 
> 
> Asennnaa: Yaas, our boi loves her so much—even in his anger, he can’t stand to see her punish herself like this a;sdjf;asj. It’s such a fine line, to call someone out with love? Because I feel like it’s so easy for those conversations to get really heated and angry, but like…Lotor is just writing himself in all of this? I love love his character and how he keeps kinda marketing himself too. XD Thank you for your reviews! 
> 
> NickyADon: That’s a really good question! I know it sometimes take a while to really see just how much weight someone has lost, especially if they try to hide it with clothing. So odds are that only Lance and Lotor really know the extent of just how diminished Allura is. But yeahh, at a certain point, other people should be noticing too. I do think this upcoming chapter should (at least start to) answer some of your other very relevant questions! And yaaas, I love me some Lotor angst too, haha. Thank you as always! 
> 
> Star-gazer: Oof, yeah, I feel that! Canon really trashed the potential of Lance’s character and rewarded/excused a lot of damaging behaviors while ignoring the very relevant struggles that he could have represented for audiences. So it’s difficult to write him in a canon-compliant way because it’s not really the Lance that I would like to have seen for this franchise, lol. But thanks so much for checking out this story! 
> 
> Gabi_lotura: Oh, absolutely! What’s hurt without the comfort or angst without the glory? I really am wanting to work toward a happy ending with this one, for sure. Getting there is definitely going to be a wild adventure though, haha. And ahh thank you for your kind words on making Allura and Lotor a little less relevant politically. I know most power fantasies in Lotura space have Lotor and Allura being emperor/empress, but I really feel that there are a lot of ways the future can take shape—and that maybe just ruling doesn’t offer much more personal agency anyway, haha. We’ll see how it all goes. This next chapter should help to answer a few of your questions also. Thank you so much for reviewing! 
> 
> Skulleh: YOOO THE BOI JUST WROTE HIMSELF IN SAYING “BOOTY CALL,” IT JUST HAPPENED WITHOUT ME THINKING MUCH ABOUT IT. XDD It makes me giggle every time I try to imagine that phrase coming out of his mouth, lol. Thank you for reading and reviewing! 
> 
> VoidAbyss: Oof, yeah, it can be really hard to spot depression if that person is trying to hide it as best as they can! There’s a few places where Allura has blamed things on illness, but I agree with you—I’d like to think other people will catch on. And ahh good question about ghost abilities. In life, Honerva was able to suck the life out of people, so I assume she’d still have that capability. I would doubt that Lotor knows how to do it, but I suppose he probably could learn if he wanted. Thank you for your review! 
> 
> Wallflwr97: Yaaas, best booty call, loll!! He’s trying so hard to keep Allura alive and to cheer her up—she’s really quite a mess in this story! But hopefully won’t be for much longer! I really appreciate your reviews and am so thankful for your support across all of these wild stories!

“Ah, princess,” came the crackle of an excited male voice, late into the evening. “Can you hear me? Is this video working?”

Allura sat on her bed, looking worn but happy as she stared into the holographic interface of her datapad. “It is working, Coran. And you know that ‘princess’ is not my title any longer,” she chided lightly, managing a weak smile. “To those who do not know me, I am Paladin Allura. But there is no title I would have you use with me, besides my own name.”

The man’s orange mustache twitched, his eyes narrowing upon her. “How’s this ongoing illness of yours? Are you still struggling to eat?”

Her weak smile faltered. “Ah, yes. At times, I feel quite nauseated still. But I have been able to eat more lately. I’ve gained a whole five pounds back, and um, found a new love for chocolate pudding.”

“Hm.” He scratched his chin, eyes still narrowed in concern. “And you’re certain you’re not pregnant? That’s not what this is, with the nausea and sleepiness and cravings for strange food?”

Allura’s cheeks flamed up. “N-no. I am not pregnant. But if I were, you would be the first to know.”

The Altean man gave her a fond, worried look. “And that boy of yours—he’s still watching over you? Keeping you company, making sure you have everything you need as a good mate does?”

She swallowed hard. For a time, her body heated in a panic that he somehow knew about Lotor haunting her. But then she realized he spoke of Lance. Her voice strained. “Lance still watches over me, yes.”

A relief came over Coran’s features. Something in him appeared aged, after all the events where he thought he’d lost her for a time.

Before he could ask more questions, Allura cut in, voice straining, “How is, um, everything on New Altea? Are you well, and do they treat you alright? Are things working out?”

The man sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Well, voted representatives are squabbling over province lines, and those who survived from the second colony are still experiencing a bit of cognitive dissonance. Some of the representatives are still in favor of Lotor and are calling for a split from the Voltron Alliance because of it. And…some other things.”

Her dark fingers tightened into the baggy material of her t-shirt. An old anxiety overcame her, and her elfin ears flicked back. “Do they still wish to put me and the others on trial for his death?”

Coran tiredly nodded.

She pressed her lips together, her eyes burning hard. “Do they not understand what all I have given them? Among it, freedom to…not be sacrificed for someone’s agenda?” Her voice rose in a strangle of pain. “I gave them their planet.”

“And that Lotor was a sly fellow,” Coran said helplessly. “He wormed his way into a lot of hearts, just like he did yours. Many Alteans are having difficulty believing he was guilty of anything, even with all of the presented evidence, and most second colony survivors are too traumatized to talk.”

Her breath hitched. “So I—I give them a new planet. I heal the survivors in all of those pods, one by one—and my own people still hate me?” Her voice broke.

Coran’s brows knitted together in pain. “Princess, it’s not like that.”

“It _is_ like that,” she cut in, awkwardly raising a hand to brush tears from her eyes. “Apologies, Coran. I cannot speak of politics anymore. It is too painful for me.”

“Of course.” Coran’s own eyes began to mist as he stared at her in loss. “Just know I’m doing what I can. They’ll accept you sooner or later. And—and many _do_ want you back. Maybe not as a princess, but as a spiritual guide. A priestess of the lost arts.” His expression grew hopeful and innocent. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

She blinked. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “No.” Her face pulled in pain. “I wish you hadn’t told them about Oriande. Then all of this power would die with me, and no one could destroy the universe again.”

“Allura—”

“—Tell me about the mice, the ecosystems,” she pleaded. “Are they happy in their new fields? Do they have families now?”

There was a pause while the man desperately reeled, trying to move his mindset to meet her need. His voice strangled. “Yes, even Chulatt has had a litter or two with his new lady. But they occasionally prowl the government buildings. I think they’re looking for you.”

She wiped her eyes again, a deep loneliness gnawing at her just as her empty stomach did. “You know I couldn’t keep them here, with all of Earth’s fears about invasive species. Did you tell them that?”

“Yes, but. They want you to visit at the very least.”

Her breath caught hard. “Well, I can’t unless I want to be pushed into a trial over Lotor’s death. And what then? What would my sentencing even be for _saving_ them from being cannon fodder?”

Coran sputtered, looking stressed. “Princess—”

“—It’s Allura,” she repeated in pain. “I’m not a princess anymore.”

“Allura,” he pleaded. “We just have to give it time. You know how it is—the hateful voices are the loudest ones. But you have many, many supporters who are thankful to you. There’s even been a counter-movement to stop the building of a statue to Lotor. One man burned the blueprints for it." His face twisted. "Although that's caused quite a bit of tension." 

She fell silent, looking drained and overwhelmed. It was all too much. And suddenly, an old sickness began to weave through her, such that it dashed the grumbling of her stomach and left her feeling cold and nauseated. Her fingers began to tremble. A cold sweat slicked upon her temples. “I’m sorry, I must go.” And then she pushed the button to end the call.

In her memories, she could recall Honerva’s as well from her mindscape—the image of a melted, rotted Lotor burned onto his seat—all of it mixing with the twisted expressions of hatred from her own people—the notes of support from the humans and other factions terrified of Lotor—

Her stomach twisted hard, and she vomited into a trash can, crying after in the silence of her room, half-begging for Lotor to appear and half-terrified to see him.

It wasn’t long that she did in fact feel ghostly fingers reach out and sweep her hair back as she vomited again. 

Lotor’s velvet voice carried an unnatural echo with it—a sign of his death. His tone was helpless and strained. “What has happened? Are you ill now?”

A helpless moan escaped her. She leaned her cold, sweaty temple against the rim of the trash can, crying in a dazed loss. “I do not know,” she whispered. She wiped her mouth, tears streaking down her face. Her pink markings dulled considerably.

For not the first time, she considered what it would mean to resurrect Lotor. The multitudes of her people who worshipped him would likely forgive her, but the many other multitudes who despised him would suddenly turn against her. His presence would in ways re-stabilize sentiments with the Galra empire sectors that were loyal to him—but it would disrupt the ongoing movements to establish a people-based government and would rekindle the Fires of Purification counter-movement. The humans would also look unkindly upon her for resurrecting a villain, which would endanger her position on the one planet so openly accepting of her. The tale of her resurrection powers would get out, such that people would covet or fear her abilities, and she would become a target too. The politics were too tangled. Emotions were too high.

Lotor’s melted image—Altean faces twisted in hate—

—An arrow in her chest from a hired assassin—

Her fingers trembled hard as she retched once more into the trash can, only for her empty stomach to twist in pain that it had nothing left to expel. Behind her, Lotor’s glowing face broke, for Allura could not afford sickness in her state. He continued to hold her hair back.

Eventually, she turned around and blearily leaned against the trash receptacle, looking like a pale wraith of herself. Her eyes carried a deep haunt—a coldness that far outmatched the cool tendrils of Lotor’s ghostly presence.

“I think I should simply die,” she whispered shakily. “It is the most expedient way to solve all of my problems, and—and help others to heal the rifts between them. I represent too many things to too many people. No action of mine can undo the tangles. Someone will always get hurt.”

She could not look up at Lotor’s face, instead focusing upon the glimmering edges of his proud armor.

His voice caught oddly. “Doesn’t your promise to your human lover inspire you to remain alive?” He seemed suddenly desperate. “That you hold value to others?”

Her engagement ring dully shined upon her wedding finger. She raised up her thin arm, staring at it through blurry eyes. She lowered her hand, falling silent. “I know,” she whispered. “I am selfish to think of death as an escape. It would break Lance’s heart. And…and Coran’s. The other paladins.” Her eyes rose to his, watery. “But it _is_ an option.”

The ghost looked stricken.

Allura looked down. She wiped her eyes of tears. “I know something is wrong with me. You don’t have to say it.”

Lotor remained silent. Then he sat back, his white hair a flutter about him. His eyes slid to hers in deep understanding. “I know what it’s like to be hated by many. Misunderstood. That has been the way of my life since birth.” He looked down, picking at his claws.

“How did you manage it?” she whispered.

“I didn’t.” His eyes flickered back to hers in great pain. “I was desperate for approval. To be the hero in the eyes of the majority—and in doing so, I compromised myself time and again. Look at where it got me.” He waved helplessly to his ghost form.

She sniffled, remaining silent for a time. She rubbed her aching stomach, where her muscles complained from her retching. Then she reached out and poked his arm.

He was semi-solid.

She trailed one of the dark blue designs down his bicep. Something about the designs and the colors felt terribly present. “Many Alteans still worship you,” she whispered. “I am the great traitor instead.”

Lotor’s face twitched darkly. “How are you a traitor to them when you resurrected their planet, their ecosystems, their alchemy? Even my mother—she was using them for her own gain as well. And her crusade was never truly about me, but herself.” His voice broke. “She didn’t even bury me. None of them did.”

Allura’s fingers slipped away from his armor.

It fell silent between them for a time.

He leaned his long, armored leg against her pajama pants with little pink stripes on them. “I could manifest upon New Altea and tell them to stop,” he tempted, voice a soft murmur. “I may be a ghost, but I can make quite a racket yet.” 

Allura leaned against him, exhausted. She sniffled. And then suddenly, a terribly strange giggle bubbled over her. “You, haunting our people?”

“Yes,” He said airily, his voice turning with a pout. “Only I am allowed to make Allura of Altea cry. No one else holds the right. Vengeance is _mine_.” He waved his large hand. “Perhaps I can topple a statue or two for effect.”

There was a strain in his voice suggesting it wasn’t entirely play.

Instead of fear, Allura felt a strange sense of calm about it. She bumped her leg against his. “Do not haunt them. They are victims in all of this.”

He bumped her back. “As are we.”

Allura raised her heavy cheek, sliding against his armor to look up at him in pain. “Yes.”

He raised his fingers, brushing away her tears with a soft caress. And then he moved away, white brows knitting together, concentrating hard to grab into her water glass and a blanket. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up and off to bed. And perhaps I can find your stash of crackers somewhere. You need to replenish your electrolytes after being sick.”

She moaned in complaint of moving. Her temples still gleamed with the cold sweat that had so suddenly wracked her. “Why do you want me to live so badly that you nursemaid me so?” 

“…Isn’t it obvious?” he murmured, searching her eyes.

The fallen princess stared at him, face breaking. “You want to use me to bring yourself back to life. And that wouldn’t work if I were dead as well.” 

Lotor’s own expression twisted in pain. “That is not my design,” he said, voice strained. He leaned forward, offering her a water glass. “I want you to _live_.”

But instead of inspiring happiness, she seemed to draw in closer on herself, rejecting the glass of water and staring helplessly down at her rumpled pajamas. “Must I always do what others want.”

His voice caught in a tangle of emotions. “If you live, you will have the power to reorder your fate.” He pushed the water glass into her hand. “But if you die, then you will be as I am. A memory to twist for someone else’s agenda. You don’t understand it, Allura, because you have not yet died. Death only removes your voice that much more.”

Allura raised weary, watery eyes to him. “You said yourself you could wreak havoc upon New Altea. Is that not a voice? And being here with me—so free of physical constraints. Is that not a benefit to what you are?” Her breath hitched. “And all of the…the stories. Of happy places and green valleys and realms without pain or sorrow? The House of Songs, as the ancients foretold?”

Lotor sat back. He raised his hands, which were transparent. “You do not understand. The House of Songs is not just a physical place, but a state of being. Why do you think ghosts like me even exist, longing for the peace and resolution we did not have in life?”

She fell silent, searching his face. Her own eyes began to burn.

His transparent fingers trembled as he lowered them. He appeared greatly aged in that moment, for his own emotions had overwhelmed him. His floating white hair seemed muted, as if even the waves of invisible quintessence between them were depressed by his mood. “Whatever you feel in life, you _will_ take it with you in death.” His voice caught hard in emotion. “And the House of Songs will be all the more difficult to obtain.”

Allura felt something move within her soul. She reached out to Lotor, touching his face. “You are unhappy as well, then.”

His expression broke, his eyes misting hard. His throat tightened to a point where he could not speak of just how unhappy he was. He leaned into her palm, the floating filaments of his hair slipping against her thin wrist.

She stroked his sharp cheek in understanding.

* * *

During breakfast time a few days later, Allura felt the familiar nudge of a ghost hand, weakly guiding her to the yogurts. Food still tasted of ash; her body ached with exhaustion; but her heart squeezed at the feeling of Lotor—separated by space and time—demanding better for her.

Something had changed.

His cold, ghostly fingers swept down her wrists with an intention that was no longer irritated or forceful. Her face flushed, as though he were touching her intimately in public. When he leaned in, she felt cold breath puff against the edge of her elfin ear.

Allura’s heart pounded with the knowledge that she still held deep emotions for one Emperor Lotor. It was for him that she sat down and ripped the top off the yogurt cup and licked her spoon. The response was that the cool presence beside her leaned forward. Ghost fingers trailed against her cheek in affection, docile against her.

The touch inspired an emotion within her—a familiar fizz of something light across her chest.

Allura wondered if this were happiness.

But then a second plate crashed down beside her on the table, and she jumped in surprise. The cold presence around her dissipated. She turned her head to see Lance McClain grabbing for the chair beside her. His uniform was still slightly askew in sleepiness.

“Morning,” he greeted her. He leaned in to press a kiss against her cheek. He was soft and warm.

All the heat within her dropped out, and the yogurt churning in her stomach suddenly twisted with nausea. Her thin fingers tightened upon her spoon. “Lance. Hi.” She forced a smile upon her face.

His eyes searched hers. “You look better today.” And then he leaned in and captured her lips with his in a kiss, before all the cafeteria, where students and teachers alike milled. It would have been a sweet gesture—two young people in love. It should have been that.

Instead, it felt controlling. Or perhaps it was her own disquiet that somewhere in the distance, the ghost of Lotor was watching them. Her.

Allura, on habit alone, allowed her mouth to move with his briefly, then pulled away. She looked down. “Yes,” she said weakly. “I am attempting to eat more these days. Now that I…feel better.”

The boy beside her grabbed for his fork, diving into the eggs on his plate. “I can tell,” he said. Beneath the table, he nudged her leg with his. “I’m glad. Was kinda gettin’ worried, you know.” He shoved food into his mouth and eyed her. His voice was muffled as his brown eyes crinkled in amusement. “I missed you staying over with me.”

She swallowed hard. “I, ah, missed you too,” she said, knowing those were the words he wanted to hear. The ring upon her finger suddenly felt as if it were cutting off blood flow.

Lance swallowed down his food and gave her a bright smile. “So, listen to this. I’ve been thinking about the wedding ceremony—like, where to hold it and stuff. And I was thinking about that tree in the courtyard. The one you brought back to life on our first date? Maybe doing something there?”

Allura’s face tightened. For all of her deep emotions for Lotor, it did not negate that she had given herself and her word to Lance. “Whatever you would enjoy most, that is well with me. Truly, I do not have experience with such designs.”

He huffed in amusement. “Aw, come on, Lura. You deserve the best of the best. You gotta have, like, princess ideas in that head of yours. Help me out.”

She bit her lip. “I just…want something simple,” she said softly. “A small, quiet affair sounds nice.”

Lance paused at that, beholding her with a hint of surprise. His dark brows furrowed together. “Well, we don’t want something _lame_ ,” he teased. “Gotta do something that’ll make the kids jealous.” He leaned forward, his elbow sinking against his tray. “Seen some pretty low-cut wedding dresses too, if you know what I mean.”

And then suddenly, his tray on the table wavered. His plate full of food tilted sideways—right onto his lap.

Lance hissed in pain at the heat of his oatmeal, a noise strangling from the back of his throat as he pulled back, standing up in fright.

Allura’s eyes widened. She reached out. “Oh! Lance, are you alright?”

His face burned hot as he stared down at himself, then her, and then his tray of food in consternation. “Uh, yeah. I just…must have bumped it, I guess.”

And meanwhile, in the corner of the room, remained a cold presence. The coldness seeped out strongly enough that several other members of the Garrison shivered all at once—as if there were malevolent forces in the shadows. The lights flickered.

Then, suddenly, the cold presence was gone.

* * *

Lotor made his displeasure known more vocally later, when Allura briefly stepped back into her room to grab her other datapad. In her room, and in her room alone, did he manifest a physical form that she could see.

She felt him the moment she walked in.

He paced to her in a flurry, his velvet voice rough. “How can you tolerate this boy you call your betrothed? He is disrespectful and demeaning.”

“Leave me alone, please,” she murmured. Her face heated up in a mixture of emotions she did not know how to interpret.

Lotor was indignant. On her behalf.

“No, I will not leave you alone.” He floated up, hovering cross-legged as he stared at her, his white hair streaming wildly about his shoulders. “He desires to showcase your breasts to an audience. You are a trophy to him. A prize.”

“I thought that was what you wanted to be to _me_ ,” she challenged quietly, daring to look at him with a quirked brow. “With your statement about booty calls.”

He huffed. In his irritation, the lights around them flickered several times. “I do not think you would parade me about in a low-cut dress to make others jealous.”

“Maybe I would.” She crossed her arms, just to be petulant.

Lotor made a noise in the back of his throat. He raised a finger. “I am attempting to hold a serious discussion with you. Do you not see how petty he is—to tease you when you provide every sign that you are not in the mood. To speak of marriage and children so flippantly.” His face twisted in jealousy. “To kiss you so openly, so that all see you as an object of desire and nothing more.”

“So it _was_ you who flipped his food tray,” she murmured, more to herself as she grabbed her datapad.

The ghost made a rough growl. He ran a hand through his hair, as if to pull some of it out. “Do not be a door mat for this boy. He is unworthy of you.” His voice broke. “Did I not release you from punishing yourself?”

The fallen princess swallowed hard. “You did,” she whispered. “But things are complicated.”

“In what way?” he demanded. “Is he truly so pleasurable in bed that you would put up with him disrespecting you everywhere else?”

She looked up, her jaw dropping as she made a squeak in the back of her throat.

Lotor leaned in, his breath cool against her lips. “Do you not believe that I could do better?” His voice dropped into something for her ears alone, intimate and soft. “That I could not take you to the edge of release, again and again? That I would not seek for your pleasure above my own?”

Her elfin ears flicked back as her face reddened, her blush stretching down the full of her front. She turned away from him, breath hitching.

His cold presence moved behind her. Gently, he placed his hands on her sides, spreading his fingers out. “I could touch you as a true lover would,” he murmured in a plea. “You have everything to gain in my arms.”

Fire. A hot fire erupted in her, storming right to her between her legs, at even the slightest of touches from him, and at the expanse of his form behind her. She could feel the broadness of his shoulders. His very male physique. The difference in their size.

A noise escaped her throat. Her pink markings flared as she leaned her head against his strong arm. Her hand, which bore her engagement ring to Lance, gripped his wrist. “And everything to lose as well.” 

His fingers paused against her. He pulled away, then turned her to him, searching her tight eyes. “Because you fear the consequences of returning me to life. You do not believe that I can be docile.”

Allura was still overwhelmed by his touch. She struggled to speak for a time, her white brows knitting together. “Many factions would not understand,” she argued in pain. “You have…several war crimes attached to you. Everyone congratulates me on my engagement to Lance. If I recall you to life, I will be a traitor to many yet again.” She swallowed hard. “And though I trust your interest in me, I do not trust it as your only design.” Her eyes began to water—that for as much as she desired him, some part of her feared the undertow of his scheming mind.

He grabbed for her chin, his touch firm but not unkind. “You killed me once for withholding information from you,” he murmured. “So, I will tell you now that truly, I _do_ have other designs beyond simply being at your side.”

Her breath hitched. “What are they?”

He hesitated. “I am aware that the emperorship of the Galra and the monarchy of Altea are defunct. But we could yet have positions of authority within this maddening place you call Galaxy Garrison. They are in desperate need of leaders with intergalactic experience and awareness of the cultural nuances among the many races in the stars. We could be ambassadors of sorts. I have heard the human leaders long for your knowledge.” 

She stared up at him, biting her lip. She poked his stomach. He was solid, but not quite. “You know I’m tired of politics.”

He huffed. “Are you? Or do you simply fear the consequence of making the wrong decision?”

Her face pulled in pain.

Lotor stroked her cheek, his gaze tight. “Princess, these humans hold increasing power as the new seat of Voltron, and there _will_ be mistakes made. We can ensure the balance remains toward peace. You can teach your little ones if it gives you joy, but you could also participate in strategy conferences. Peace negotiations. Cultural research.” His face caught with a strange flicker. “I’ve always thought of peace as an endpoint, but it is not. It is a never-ending endeavor. And no one single person can uphold it.”

Her eyes searched his.

“You feel it as I do,” he pleaded. “Diplomacy is your birthright, as it is mine. Imagine it. All the intergalactic trips we would have to make.” His brows knitted together in fervent passion. “The exploration we could do. The cultures we could learn.”

Allura swallowed hard. “Your schemes make many assumptions,” she warned. “And I cannot leave for extended times, as I am yet a paladin needed to form Voltron. If I were to bring you back, it is best to set your sights lower.”

The fallen emperor huffed in frustration.

“You can keep me in line,” he teased, his too-bright eyes staring into her own with a quirk of humor. “I can provide recommendations as to what elicits the most compliant response from me.”

The sexual undertow of his voice made her heart skip, and she flushed. She was both in awe and fearful of how easily she reacted to even his voice. "But then what of your mother? If I return you to life, she might still return to haunt me. And then neither of us could stop her." 

His long fingers wrapped around her own. “My mother rages in pain. Resurrect me, princess, and my mother will hesitate to accost you again. For she will see the happiness in me and will cool her own anger on my behalf.”

The woman pulled away, looking worried. “But _Lance_ ,” she whispered. She touched the ring upon her hand. 

A silence stretched between them.

“I cannot force you away from him,” Lotor declared tiredly. “If you choose to marry him still, then I would yet offer myself as your consort. But I will say one more time that he is not your match. And you will remain in misery, for he will burn in jealousy against me, and he will carry that jealousy out on you.”

“He is not a violent man,” she argued. 

“No.” Lotor reached out to stroke her lips, which he knew had felt Lance’s. He desired to wipe the boy’s touch away from her entirely. “But his public antics with you would increase. He will keep you pregnant with his children, to establish rank and to declare his ongoing possession of you.”

Another silence stretched between them. “But I like children,” she confessed. Her voice halted, as if she were revealing a deep secret. “I’ve never—had a family. I’ve, um, wanted one. Even if I have to make it myself.” She looked away, pressing her lips together hard. “And…he desires a family. He is so good with children, even if you think him cruel to me. That is part of why…”

Lotor’s eyes searched hers, a lit appearing within them. “…Why you remain with him.”

She blinked rapidly. Her breath began to hitch. “I thought—maybe little ones would make me happy again.” Her lips quivered. “To hold life and—and have a purpose.”

His expression broke. He stroked her cheek. “You do have a purpose.”

Allura shuddered through a breath. “And what purpose is that—creating strife between people?” Tears squeezed from her eyes, her lips beginning to quiver. “I know I could be a good mother. I was always expected to be one.”

Lotor’s calloused, cool thumb brushed away her tears, smearing them across her cheek. “It _is_ true, your great purpose seems to be connected to giving life, in many ways.” His face pulled in pain. “But a child will frustrate you with their own aims, just as people and planets frustrate you now.”

“But there is a deep bond between mother and child unlike other social bonds,” she argued softly. “Everyone loves their mother.”

His fingers paused over her cheek. He searched her eyes, then admitted haltingly, “I do not love mine.”

Her elfin ears flicked back. She began to cry, silently, her face pulling in great pain. “You suggest that my own children could _hate_ me.” Her voice hitched on the word _hate_. “Do you have such little faith in me? That I—I wouldn’t give them absolutely everything I had, even for just a smile?”

“Allura—”

Her breath shuddered, and she pulled away in great distress. “—I do very well, teaching little ones here at the Garrison. Some are unruly, but I…I care for them all deeply and want to see them grow and be happy.” She swallowed down a sob. “I don’t think any of them hate me. Do they? Do they put on a show, and then afterward, whisper against me?”

Lotor gently grabbed for her chin. “Allura.” His voice strained. “Your students do love your classes. But they do not see the tears you shed in private. You would distress your own children, if you can even bring a child to term in your state.” His brows knitted together in pain. “I’m not certain you can.”

She fell silent, looking away from him, stricken. She breathed out shakily. “I am—aware that I must get better. I’ve been trying.” She swallowed hard. “With your help.”

His thumb caught a few more of her tears. He murmured to her, voice catching hard, “I would help you find happiness once more if you returned me to life. And afterward, if you still desired a family, I could give you as many children as you want. And they could travel with us across galaxies as we negotiate for peace.”

Allura closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. Her thin hands shakily moved to her abdomen, imagining her body swelling with the child of a living Lotor. She distantly recalled a memory when she was a child on Altea, when her father had managed an intergalactic peace conference. Among the attendees was an alien woman, who held a suckling child to her breast as she negotiated for new import and export treaties.

Allura had unashamedly stared at the woman, in surprise that this beautiful alien woman was a mother and a queen and an ambassador. Her words had been soft but striking. All listened to her—even Zarkon, who had been in attendance.

Now, Allura’s heart pulled hard in want, that she could be like the alien queen. She dared to think that such a future with Lotor would make her happy. 

But she knew that trouble lurked within all of Lotor's most idealistic imaginings. And so despite the great well of power in her, and the desire she had to fill him with life, she did not raise her hands to heal him, in fear. 

"It's a lovely idea," she weakly whispered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! In terms of a balanced Lotura diet, this story continues to be my serving of angst, lol. I just can’t get over how much canon stripped Allura of so much, and I feel like the mental ramifications of that would be very significant and would require some time to really untangle and work through. 
> 
> Also, if you’re ever bored, I continue to run a [lil Lotura blog on tumblr](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/), where I occasionally post story-status updates and other things. Thanks again for reading and reviewing! 
> 
> Please review with your thoughts, constructive criticisms, or ideas/requests!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following awesome people for reviewing last time: 
> 
> Asennnaa: Guh, yes, I feel so bad for Coran too! I hope those two can reconcile one of these days. And gosh, I usually do try to write Lance in a balanced way, but I guess this is my self-indulgent fic where he’s just a little too antagonistic, lol. I do think, with Lotor, he definitely needs multiple reasons to exist. Like, he just doesn’t strike me as the person who would actually be happy just as a booty call, even if he jokes that way with Allura, lol. But aaah, thank you for reading and reviewing! I appreciate it! 
> 
> LunarMagnolia: Ahhh thank you for flailing in all of the emotions with me! This story is very emotional for me to write, so it means a lot to hear that you’re enjoying it and having emotions alongside me, loll. We can be tearful disasters together over Lotura! Thank you so much again! 
> 
> ConfusedScreaming: Wow, thank you so much for taking a chance on this fic! And I’m sorry about the wait and your difficulty with finding good lotura fic. I hope this one continues to meet your expectations! Thank you for the very kind words and for your support! 
> 
> Geeeny: Thank you so much, dear! I’m still working out what my personal style is when writing, and I think trying to write royals has forced me to be a little more intentional with my syntax, lol. Always something to learn! Thank you again for your support and reviews! 
> 
> Gabi_lotura: Wow, thank you for your extended review of the last chapter! Gosh, I can see Coran telling a tale in the future too over all of this, LOL. Yeah, the allurance in this story is definitely not a happy one, and it honestly kinda pains me to try and write a season-1!Lance. I definitely think Lance as a character has potential, but there’s definitely some weird stuff in his perspective—like that jealousy you call out—that makes him a pretty good antagonist at times, haha. Ooh, you ask a good question about whether Lotor would have issues being a father. I agree that he probably would, and that becoming a father would having its own trials and difficulties for him to overcome per all that abuse from his own father. But I think he’d definitely try to work through it for the greater good of his family too! Thanks again for your review! 
> 
> VoidAbyss: Ahhh thank you for the very extended review! I really appreciate it and hope you continue to enjoy future chapters! You ask a lot of really good questions that I hope we can get around to answering soon. As far as Lotor goes in canon, he definitely had a mental breakdown, and it caused him to use the Sincline ship abilities to punch holes in the space-time continuum, nearly destroying the universe. So that’s what prompted Allura and the paladins to sacrifice the Castle of Lions to seal the rifts. So it’s definitely a touchy canon subject, given that so many Alteans canonically/unquestionably followed Lotor too! So I guess I’m playing with that a lot here, while recognizing that a lot of people have an “us vs them” perspective when it comes to politics (meaning, if some Alteans see Allura as against Lotor, then she’s not one of them, etc.). And gosh, I definitely feel your frustration with how no one’s been listening to Allura. Hopefully we can get some traction in a future chapter! And ahh, I really appreciate your long posts. Thank you so much for your support and feedback! 
> 
> Wallflwr97: That art you speak of, regarding the Coran drawing where he looks crushed? Ooof, my heart ripped into a million pieces and then got shredded again, lol. But ahhh thank you so much for your kind words over this story! I really do think this story is me kinda working through some of balm I needed for all the bad stuff that happened in canon. Also LOL, yeah ghostor still exudes sexiness, and no one can deny it LOLLL. As always, I really appreciate your feedback and support—thank you so much for reviewing!

One day, during a midafternoon class, a small hand raised up. “Paladin Allura?” came the young, curious voice of a human boy. 

Allura was turned around, drawing a little map on the chalkboard, her dark hand stained with the chalk dust and brow wrinkled. “Yes, Dimitri?”

“Why are we learning about New Daibazaal?” he asked innocently, his face twisting in confusion. “Galrans are evil. We shouldn’t be learning about them or their new planet. Just ways to kill ‘em.”

Several other human children in the room began to murmur in agreement.

Her hand paused on the chalkboard, then slid down in surprise. She turned. “Those are very strong words,” she said, voice strained. Her gaunt face pulled hard in pain. “Did your parents tell you that?”

“Yeah,” the boy said. His eyes shifted with hurt. “They took my dad away and made him work until Voltron saved us.” His little face twitched in a sudden fear, and he looked down. “The attack was scary. I don’t wanna learn about them or their stupid planet.”

Allura felt a sharp ache as she stared at the lost and discomforted face of the boy. Within him, she saw a part of herself and remembered that Earth had—even if it were for a short time—been forcefully occupied by the Galra, with many families torn apart and forced to build Zaiforge cannons.

A small girl piped up. “They set my neighborhood on fire. We lost our house.”

“—killed our dog—”

“—took stuff too—”

Allura’s gaunt face twisted in great pain. She set down her piece of chalk and weakly clapped her hands. “Children, please. Order, please.”

For a time, the murmurs continued, but eventually all the little eyes turned back to Allura.

The fallen princess stood there before her classroom of children, her heart crackling. “I speak of New Daibazaal,” she said haltingly, “because it is now an Alliance planet, just as Earth and New Altea are—”

Dimitri, the first student, interrupted in pain, “—But why did you even bring them back? It’s not like they deserved anything.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t wanna learn about Galrans unless it’s how to kill one.”

Several of the students agreed.

Allura’s breath hitched. “I—I understand that anger and hurt, little ones. I truly do.”

“You’re a paladin of Voltron,” one of the students called out in pain. “You could have killed them all, and then they couldn’t hurt anyone ever again. Why did you help them? Why do we have to learn about them?” 

She fell silent. For a time, she looked down at her hands, which were a little thinner than at the height of her time as a paladin. Her voice grew halted. “This class is about the universe, of which the Galra are a part. Just as we _all_ are a part. But you have asked me these questions, so I will answer them. And I will not answer them again, for this topic is—” Her voice tightened. “It’s difficult for me as well.” 

The students fell very silent, cautious but curious.

“The Galra hurt me too,” she confessed. “My home planet was destroyed in a massive attack. I lost my home, my father, all of my friends. Most of my belongings.” The topics was difficult. Her voice weakened. “My people were hunted down, systematically, so that they could not make families. But do you know how so many Alteans lived through all of this and now flourish together on New Altea?”

The room was silent.

Allura’s breath caught. “There was—a prince of the Galra, who became the last emperor. You have heard his name before and know that he is also a cause of great debate among your parents.” She pressed her lips together, her brows furrowing. “Emperor Lotor was in part Altean, like me. He…had many reasons for why he gathered Alteans together on a planet far from the fighting and the hunts.”

Her fingers trembled. “Um.” Her voice caught. “For all the—the hard things that still happened, he managed to convince many Galrans to help him save Alteans. There was an entire network of Galrans who were not warriors of hate, but were people like you and me. They kept the prince’s actions a secret and assisted him in smuggling Alteans out of various heavily occupied planets. They wanted to do the right thing and save life, even if they couldn’t fight an army.”

She looked down at her hands again. “Some of the Alteans still remember the names of Galrans who hid them during raids—who gave them clothes of their culture so they would not be so easily identified.” Her breath hitched. “These average Galrans risked their lives and their families to help others. Could you kill them?”

The room remained completely silent.

Allura swallowed hard. “And the children of these Galrans, who had memories of their parents hiding Alteans—several grew up and established what is now called the Blade of Marmora. They worked with many cultures to frustrate Emperor Zarkon’s aims at total universal conquest.”

Several student’s eyes lit up at the mention of the Blade of Marmora—a mysterious shadow organization that they often compared to ninjas and other forms of human warriors.

“And these Blades,” Allura said, her voice strengthening, “even if they could not stop the evil at large, they kept very, very detailed records of every crime they saw the Galran army commit.” Her eyes began to blur. “These records are now being used to bring the very bad people to justice, to make them pay in the court of law for their crimes.” She hesitated. “Would you kill these Blades?”

The room fell silent again. The student named Dimitri looked slightly shamed, for hidden deep in his notebook was a rough sketch of the Blade of Marmora symbol.

Allura held his gaze, eyes watery and earnest. “I resurrected the planet Daibazaal because the entire Galran race is not the problem. In fact, many within it are good but are simply known by the reputation of the bad ones. It is not unlike…how in your biology classes, you learn about bacteria and viruses. But you have also learned that your body functions as a home for many good ones. In exchange, they help you obtain nutrients from the food you eat. So that you can grow strong.” Her voice broke softly. “The very processes in our minds, which allow us to make memories? They are inherently virus-like in nature. It is because of a virus that you can remember the faces of people you love. The lyrics to your favorite song. The feeling of a hug.”

Several children looked down.

Allura’s voice broke. “Bringing Daibazaal back—strengthening good people and ensuring a home for such good—is allowing the body of this universe to heal.” Her voice strengthened. “Because when you are sick, it is not simply because of an invading virus and bacteria. It is because _the good ones_ who stand with you have weakened and cannot fight them off.”

She grabbed onto her piece of chalk again. “And so we shall learn of New Daibazaal. Any questions?”

There was a silence for a time. One little girl meekly raised her hand, voice tentative, “Paladin Allura, I’m confused. How do you know a good Galran from a bad one? You say the Emperor Lotor helped your people, but my mama says he was a bad man. So which is he?”

Her thin fingers tightened on the chalk. A raw agony lit over her. “Oh, Sylvie. That is…a very good question. Sometimes, the answer is very messy. That is what law is for.” She cleared her throat. “So, um, if you have a question specifically about the thirty-fourth and final emperor of the Galra, then I recommend you take that question to your ethics teacher. As.” Her voice strained. “As this is a science class, and we’ve already gone far off-topic.” 

And on the far side of the classroom, there was a cold presence. Long, clawed fingers tapped against dark armor, the ghost of Emperor Lotor tilting his head. Floating, white hair spilled down one broad shoulder, his ears flicking back. He watched the fallen Princess Allura as she began to slowly discuss the properties of planet New Daibazaal, her students leaning in with hesitant interest.

* * *

Later, the ghost of Lotor appeared to Allura as she rummaged for a missing notebook in her room.

“What a curious speech,” Lotor murmured to her, leaning against the wall. His voice was dry. “The Galra have been called viruses many a time—but never have I heard anyone argue for such a title as a good thing.”

Allura was no longer startled by his abrupt entrances into her personal quarters. Her voice was muffled and distracted as she moved aside some of her long Garrison tunics, her bun a puff against fabric. “I thought I felt your presence for a tick, but I did not see you.” She pulled away from the closet with a huff, looking slightly dizzy from the quick movement to stand tall. Her fingers clenched in on the priceless notebook. She turned to Lotor. “Did you, um, hear the whole thing?”

He hesitated, and a vulnerable line ticked in him. “Yes.” He blurred forward, his inches from her own, his ghostly hair floating in a swirl against her cheek and his own. “Is it true, what you said? That not all bacteria or viruses are—bad, inherently? Regarding the formation of memory, even?”

She looked up, face drawing in pain. “Do you mean that you never learned such science?”

The ghost’s face twitched in a strange way, and he retorted, voice strained, “The Galra were not known as healers. Our sciences were more mechanical in nature, and much was lost in war.”

Allura’s brows furrowed. “But Honerva—”

“—Honerva died when Haggar rose,” he retorted, voice pained. “So I ask again. Is it true? Or was your statement a fairytale to soothe the minds of children? I have only ever known viruses as enemies.”

She hesitated, then said softly, “It was true what I said, all of it. The virus that came to encode memory was a retrotransposon, resulting in the Arc protein. It’s in all of the standard human textbooks.” She managed a weak smile. “They’re a very clever people, humans are. I have learned much in my time here.”

Lotor’s glowing face pulled hard. His eyes began to mist. “And me? If I am a virus as all Galra are, what am I?” He raised a hand to his chest, the action creating a soft cling against his armor. “Would you have resurrected Daibazaal to host a beneficial ally? Or am I yet a virus to be eradicated?”

Allura’s gaunt face stared at him, her expression pulling in great pain. “Lotor, you’re—”

Lotor grew increasingly distressed. “—You could hardly speak my name to your own students, and you deflected when they asked for your judgement of me. I demand to know what category of _virus_ I am to you.”

Her face began to pale. “Oh, I think I need to sit down.” She shakily reached for the dresser, then pulled herself to a nearby chair, which was half-piled with clothes. She slid down to it, her bun a bouncing puff. “Oh, Lotor.”

He kneeled before her, eyes vulnerable. “I need to know,” he begged. His voice watered. “I need to know what you think of me.”

There was a pause between them, with only the air conditioner kicking on to break the silence.

Allura’s breath hitched. She reached out and dared to stroke his cheek, which was solid in a curious way but very cold. “I did not know you would be in that class. The Galra are more than viruses. They are full people. My words…they were simply a _metaphor_ for children, to understand that sometimes we recognize entire groups for the bad while ignoring the good.” Her eyes began to water. “The…the humans, in fact, nearly killed their own species in an attempt to wipe out all bacteria and viruses decades ago. Those children know such history very well and fear it. It was an expedient way to get an idea across, that Galrans are necessary and can be a beneficial part of an interconnected life.” 

The man’s breath hitched. His clawed fingers, tightened into the material of her pants. “But you did not resurrect Daibazaal for me. The Emperor Lotor, a virus. An appropriate metaphor—surely you see how unironic the association is, or perhaps you thought of me when you first imagined such a comparison—”

Allura’s fingers trembled as they pulled away from his shining face, which was increasingly distressed. “—You speak of the colony.”

His eyes brimmed with tears, for the association of virus with himself seemed to hit too close to his true self-perceptions. He could not hold her gaze. “You could not name me easily before your students.” His breath hitched. “I am not like this…Arc retrotransposon. You think me flawed and dangerous instead.” 

“—Lotor,” she cut in, voice not unkind. She hesitated, then slowly began to run her emaciated fingers through his hair. It was a cool fine silk, like a breeze against her skin. A weakness overcame Lotor, and he sat down on the floor, rested his heavy cheek against her lap, desperate for her touch. Broad, armored shoulders crunched in, his pride crumbling before her like metal bending in a forge.

She felt cold tears sink into her clothes, and her throat tightened up, even as she continued to play lightly with his hair, stroking it back in ways she knew was a Galran act of affection. “You are not inherently flawed,” she whispered to him, voice wavering. “No more flawed or dangerous than any of us.”

His form was particularly heavy in that moment, as if he carried the weight of every single soul who had perished under his experiments. His voice was strained and muffled against the fabric of her clothes. “I wanted to bring them back. If I could not find the answer in Oriande, then I knew I could do it after we obtained quintessence from the rift.” He pulled away, and his watery eyes were earnest and carried deep pain. “You would have never known, for I intended to _bring them back_.” His lips quivered.

Her fingers caught his tears, which glowed. “I know,” she whispered. Her own eyes began to brim, and she managed a weak smile that faltered with a small sob. “I know that now. And, um, I’ve brought them back for you. Every last one of them.”

His long arms tightened around her legs, and a noise escaped it. It was strangled moan—a mix of joy and pure shame. “I might have known how to do it myself if I had passed in Oriande.” His elfin ears twitched back in pain. He leaned his sharp cheek against her palm, eyes vulnerable.

At that, Allura realized what she was witnessing within Lotor. He felt _remorse_. A deep-seated shame. And unlike various other Galrans who had learned of error in their ways, even unlike Honerva who had undone her own actions, Lotor did not have the opportunity to make such amends. 

This being before her was too dead to affect change—to undo the discord he’d sewn in the name of peace.

Tears rose to Allura’s eyes as she beheld him, for in that moment, she felt such an urge—she felt his quintessence field flickering against her own desperately, pleading for life.

To be more than he was.

She blinked, and her tears slipped down her face. “I cannot resurrect you,” she whispered. “As much as I may want to—I fear the consequences.”

She watched the light die in his eyes. He looked down, swallowing hard. His white eyelashes caught his tears, but several more streaked down his cheeks. His elfin ears pulled back tightly against his skull. “I know what you fear.” He pulled away suddenly.

Allura grabbed for his wrist. “Please,” she begged. Her voice strained. “Lotor.”

The ghost was beginning to fade out from the material plane—in part because he wished to, but also in part because he had expended too much energy with tears and emotion. He glanced down at his wrist where she held him. His face tightened in great pain.

“You have another class to teach soon.” His voice was halted, but it was soft with defeat. “I distract you from your little ones.”

She searched his eyes. “Lotor.” Her white brows knitted together. Words hung at the tip of her tongue. She pressed her lips together before trying again, voice watery. “You are capable of so much good. And for all of our great fallouts—” her throat tightened—“you are…still one of my happiest memories.”

The ghost’s eyes brightened with tears. A raw ache came over him—he looked down at their intertwined hands. “And you are mine,” he whispered.

“I want to bring you back, you know,” Allura confessed unsteadily, eyes brimming with tears. “Truly, I do.”

Blue irises flickered up to her. “But I am a virus to you,” he argued in a pain, a tinge of something indignant raising in his voice. “The dangerous kind that preys on weakness to sustain itself—I see it in your eyes. For I cannot erase my history of such.”

Her voice grew desperate in a mix of frustration and pain. “That’s not true. You are keeping me _alive_. And we both know it.”

The fallen emperor swallowed hard.

Her fingers slid away from his, caressing down the increasingly transparent lines and callouses that were uniquely Lotor. “There are viruses that…keep people alive, you know. That bind with their host intimately and fight off invaders. Humans have trillions upon trillions of such within them.” She looked up at him, face breaking. “The humans know well of such symbiotic relationships. The danger that such a virus presents—it isn’t to the host, but to enemies. And it is not evil.”

Lotor hesitated, a vulnerable, cautious hope tightening his face.

“I would host you,” she whispered. She awkwardly brushed tears away from her cheek, her emaciated hand falling to her lap. “For what it’s worth. I know all that you can be, in the right environment. And I do not fear you. I—” Her elfin ears flicked back in pain—“I know I would be dead without you.”

His eyes caught on the emaciated lines of her. 

His head tilted, his white hair streaming about him. A strange swell of protectiveness washed over him. He reached out to her, moving to touch her cheek. “I _would_ defend you,” he murmured, voice catching. “And I would bind with you intimately, if I could.”

Lotor’s touch was a feather-light streak of cold.

And then his form faded out.

* * *

The ghost of Emperor Lotor fell quiet for a time, disappearing into the quantum realms. He paced in a mild distress, contemplating his existence. The quintessence winds around him warped with his emotions.

And then, he noticed odd movements within the living universe, and he realized that perhaps he was not so helpless as he thought. His white brows knitted together, and he moved, as if the universe itself were expecting him.

Zarkon—the fallen emperor and father—watched his distressed son, his red eyes curious and concerned. He stood in the midst of the shining white of the realm, holding onto flowers he’d picked for his still wayward wife. “What are you doing, my son?”

Lotor walked toward the quintessence bridges across space-time, searching for the planet of Altea. “Being a virus,” he said, voice straining.

“I do not understand.”

“You wouldn’t.” His white hair streamed behind him in flickers as he began to walk farther away, from out of the realms onto the bridges. “I must go—I will likely not return for some time.” 

The father tilted his head. He spoke, awkwardly, “I would…like to try. To understand. If—if you allow it.”

That did it. Lotor’s boots paused on the bridge. He turned around, eyes narrowing. Zarkon had been attempting to bond with him, in ways that Lotor no longer found surprising. But he still searched the eyes of the man who had abused him greatly in life, blinded by quintessence.

Zarkon faltered, his elfin ears twitching back. “Or I can leave you,” he offered. He swallowed, then awkwardly moved to scratch back of his neck. “You are busy. I do understand that.”

Lotor pressed his lips together. He searched his father, then declared, “I will tell you of my plans. When one is accosted by illness, certain viruses move to defend the body that hosts them. Without the host’s executive knowledge, even. I intend to function as such for not just Allura, but for the body of the universe.”

Zarkon, a man of great strategy but little poetic understanding, hesitated. “I—you are…” His plated face screwed up in an odd way. “You speak of defense. Of the universe.”

“Yes.”

An old warrior’s interest—and a protective, fatherly worry—flitted across Zarkon's face. “It is not good to wander off the known paths of these bridges,” he warned. “Where do you seek to go?”

The boy face-faulted. “Can’t you guess?” he snapped, voice roughening. “Allura is yet failing to thrive. And the Fires of Purification yet exist in the living realm. Perhaps I cannot affect change in life—” he turned back to the bridge, his eyes setting forward— “but my calling is not finished. The princess reminded me of what I am on this day. And what I can do.”

Zarkon’s eyes widened in surprised. “Have you not suffered enough, my son?” He waved his hand, his voice straining. “You already have done so much to try and undo my—” he faltered— “my mistakes.” He hesitated. “And if the daughter of Alfor passes into the afterlife, then…” His voice softened helplessly in defeat, “death is merely the path of life.”

Lotor bared a fang in frustration. He called over his shoulder in a snap, “Allura and I were born to _live_ , and perhaps if you and mother had understood the difference, the universe would not have suffered for your immortality.” 

The man flinched.

Lotor continued forward, sighing, the lines of his shoulders hardening with a new determination. His face pulled in great pain. “But I can protect and preserve life, even as I am now. And I can—I can prove what I am. If only for myself.”

* * *

Meanwhile, back in the realm of the living, Allura picked at her dinner. Lotor did not materialize to force her to eat, for the first time in several nights. She swallowed down the sweet and cool applesauce she’d grabbed for herself, her actions slow. The cold feeling of Lotor’s hair between her fingers—his tears—still tingled on her skin.

She craved cold things, in thought of him.

“ _I need to know. I need to know what you think of me_.”

The applesauce on her tongue turned almost too sweet—too tart. Her eyes welled with tears as she struggled down the food. She dropped her spoon, and then shakily moved to shuffle her papers on the table before her. The children in her science class had drawn star maps of the Alliance planets, coloring them all in different ways—

She reached for a pen from her teaching bag, her thin fingers trembling.

She still felt Lotor’s head leaning against her lap, his fingers digging into her clothes in distress. All because he had heard her lecture—had taken it to heart.

Allura made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, suddenly moving to hide her eyes and breathe in unsteadily. Her breath hitched.

And it was then that she felt a presence sit a plate down on the other side of the table before her. “Hey,” came a soft, male voice. “You okay?”

Fear slipped through her. She hesitantly lowered her hands from her face, her vulnerable eyes widening in surprise. “…Keith?”

The man before her had aged, same as all the paladins. His face had sharpened; his hair had lengthened, and his shoulders had broadened. But he still bore the same kind, gray eyes—perceptive. He looked down at his food, then at hers, which was yet still a meager mish mash of easily chewed foods. Then his face twisted in an odd discomfort. “I, uh, don’t mean to bother you or anything. But I just—” he raised his eyes back to her— “I know Lance and everybody says you’ve been really sick. Are you…are you sure you’re getting better?”

Allura stared at him in consternation. It had been a long time since she’d heard from any paladin other than Lance, given that they’d had few missions as a team, with several of them performing diplomatic duties on other planets. Not that she even had the energy to pilot Blue Lion at the moment. Her face flushed in embarrassment, for it meant her own inability to care for herself was such that others were now questioning her provided narrative. She looked down at her papers. “I—I am getting stronger slowly, thank you.”

Keith sat down. The gold of his uniform flashed in the harsh fluorescent light above them, a dark lock straggling against his cheek. He eyed her more fully, worried. “You look, like, a scarecrow or something. And you look like you’re about to cry too.”

Her fingers tightened into her uniform. She managed a tight smile. “Oh, I suppose I just had a…difficult conversation with my students today.”

“Is that why you’re upset right now?”

Her voice strangled. “Ah, I never said I was upset.”

Keith awkwardly scratched at the Galran stripe on his cheek. “I’m not stupid.” 

Allura flinched. Her face twisted in pain. “I, uh—I didn’t mean to offend you. I truly did have a difficult conversation today. And—I _am_ still working to heal from my…sickness.”

Those gray eyes watched her with a mild disbelief. “You don’t even look like the Allura I know,” he said. “I mean, I know I was gone on New Daibazaal for a while, but this…” His face pulled in worry. “Do you have, like, cancer or something? I know we all got exposed to some weird stuff, trying to fight off Honerva. You, especially.”

Her heart squeezed. It pained her to lie to her friends. “It’s simply an exhaustion from…everything,” she said gently, attempting for a half-truth. “It took a lot out of me to resurrect all that Honerva destroyed.” Her eyes began to burn. “But I am getting better now.”

Keith remained silent for a time.

Allura could not hold his gaze.

Then, he bit his lip. “I watched you,” he said eventually. “You were trying to eat that applesauce like it’s dirt. Something else is wrong, and you’re _not_ healing from it.”

His words cut her. It took more and more emotional control to fight down tears. “I promise you, I—”

“—Is it Altea?” he pressed, eyes narrowing in worry. “I’ve heard the stories of what’s going on over there, and why you’ve stayed here. You stressed about that?”

She exhaled shakily. And then she began to cry, genuinely. She pulled back, wiping at her tears. “Oh,” she said, voice watery. Her fingers began to tremble.

Keith’s eyes widened. He looked stricken. “Hey—hey, it’s okay,” he said. “I’m just asking. You know?” His voice strained. “They don’t really like me either.”

Allura’s vision blurred hard with tears. She gave him a completely broken look. “You have no idea, Keith. For they are not your people.”

His face screwed up. He swallowed hard, flushing in shame. “Just—tell me how I can help,” he said eventually. “Pidge and Hunk are still out on missions. But they’ll be coming back home soon. We all can _help_.”

“…Lance is helping me,” she whispered.

“Is he?” Keith demanded. “Sure doesn’t look like it.”

It was then that a third plate slammed down on the table. “What,” snapped an irritated Lance, “is going on here? Keith?”

Keith looked up at Lance, his gray eyes hardening in worry. “I’m just—”

Lance moved closer to Allura, protectively rubbing her back while giving Keith a dark glare. “What the _cheese_ did you say? You’re back, like, two days—and you’re already causing trouble?”

Keith’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m concerned,” he snapped out. “Allura’s been sick for how long? And she’s not getting better.”

“How would you know?” Lance demanded. “You haven’t even been here. You all _left_.”

The black paladin flushed in emotion. “I got your reports on things. But come on, man. Look at her.”

Allura cut in, voice hitching as she tried to wipe away her tears. “Friends, please. Do not fight. I—I am alright.”

Lance grew even more defensive. “No, Keith is trying to swoop in and play the white knight. When that’s _my_ role. And it’s been my role this whole time.” His face hardened. “Allura’s having a hard time with stuff, yeah. And the only reason she’s probably still alive is because of me, so you can thank me right now.”

“Well, maybe she needs more help than you can give,” Keith challenged in worry.

The fallen princess tried again. “Friends—”

Lance’s voice raised. “—She’s _my_ fiancé to worry about, not yours,” he snapped.

“I didn’t say she was my fiancé,” Keith argued back, voice raising incredulously, his eyes widening in disbelief. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“Why?” Lance challenged.

The black paladin sputtered. “You seriously think I can’t care about Allura as a friend?”

Allura’s breath caught. She slammed her hand down on the table, forcing both boys to look at her. “Stop it,” she pleaded. “Both of you.”

It fell silent for a time. They turned to look at her.

She inhaled shakily, then said, voice wavering, “I—I suppose…along with all the energy it took to resurrect things, I _have_ been worried about New Altea and my place in the larger order.”

Keith breathed out, blowing a black lock away from his eyes. “Well, maybe we can get Hunk over there once he returns from the Taujeerian planet. He’s good with diplomacy—can probably help smooth some things over.”

Lance’s face tightened. “Uh, _I_ was planning on doing that, once Coran said it was okay to go.”

The older boy flickered his gaze back to Lance. “You suck at diplomacy,” he deadpanned. “And if it’s bothering Allura this much, it can’t wait anymore.”

Fear overwhelmed her. She cut in, desperately, “I’d rather not…rock the boat, as you say.”

“Yeah,” Lance added, moving to rub Allura’s back again. “We’re going to be getting married soon anyway. If she stays out of it for now, then we can go on a honeymoon far away and just…you know, forget about everything for a while.”

Allura managed a pained smile, desperate for escape. “Yes. A chance to forget about everything. Even for a short time. And—and if I am married or with child upon my arrival to New Altea, no doubt it will make my people see me as…less of a monster. So it—it all works out.”

“Exactly.” Lance rubbed her back protectively. Or possessively. “It all works out.”

Keith’s gaze flickered back and forth between them, his brow crinkling. He looked slightly haunted, flushing in realization that he was broaching on a sensitive topic he did not entirely understand. And then he grabbed for his plate of food, standing up. But his voice caught in a frustration. “Look, I know we haven’t had any dangerous missions in a long time. But we can’t be down a Blue Paladin because you’re pregnant or sick. We’ve still got the Fires of Purification running around.”

And it was then that Allura’s face fell. She began to wonder if perhaps Keith worried for her only because of her status as a paladin. Her gaze lowered. “You know how the lions are. Despite the deep bonds, I can be replaced. One day, I will have to give up the warrior’s life entirely to care for a growing family, regardless.”

Keith’s eyes snapped up to her, and a pain flickered through him. Along with a fear, that something inherent had changed in his time away on New Daibazaal. Something deep. His fingers tightened on his food tray. “Is…is that what you want?”

“Of course,” Allura half-lied, wiping her face of tears.

“We want a lot of kids,” Lance cut in, still eyeing Keith with suspicion that he was yet somehow a rival for Allura’s hand. “You know, big family, big farm. The good life. Not that it’s any of your business.”

In that tick, something deflated in Keith. He looked almost lost and shamed. “Right,” he snapped back uneasily. “Family.” His voice caught. “Like we weren’t all a family once.”

And then he turned away, moving to eat elsewhere with a tense line in his shoulder.

Allura’s heart pulled, wishing that he’d come back. But instead, Lance leaned in, giving her a kiss on the cheek, marking her as his once more before the whole of the room. His hand across his back steadied her.

With a hitched breath, she leaned against him, looking down at the ring glimmering on her finger. She wondered for the first time if she’d scared Lotor away for good somehow—

“Just ignore Keith,” Lance told her, grabbing for her applesauce cup. He swirled her spoon in it. His voice was strained and petulant. “He thinks he always has the right answers. But he doesn’t.” 

She swallowed hard, looking back up at Lance brokenly.

It seemed that, wildly enough, Lance was yet again the only one who remained at her side after expressing any kind of opinion or emotion. Or failure. Lotor had left after being upset by her metaphor of viruses…Keith had left…

The boy faltered as he pushed her applesauce at her. “Come on, Lura. You _do_ need to eat.”

Her eyes watered hard as he placed the applesauce cup in her frail hand. In that moment, she so desperately wished for Lotor’s presence—his sharp, concerned voice murmuring to her—but knew that he was gone, far away.

“Just, like, three bites,” Lance was bartering with her, his face tightening with concern when she did not respond to him. “You _are_ getting better, right? You can eat, right?”

Her throat tightened in pain, seeing that she was genuinely scaring Lance. She weakly obeyed him, in fear that in the end, everyone would leave her behind. That everyone would eventually stop caring, stop trying. She munched on the applesauce even though it tasted to her like granite, and she managed to say, voice wavering and muffled, desperate to please somebody, “I _am_ getting better.”

* * *

Meanwhile, deep in the dark regions of space—past several galaxies, a blue planet hung in the sky. And upon in, in the sleeping quarters of a government building, one man with an orange mustache stood before a washroom mirror, scrubbing his face with cool water. He wore matching orange Earth pajamas with little clouds on them.

With a bit of a flail, he reached for a towel upon which to dry his face, his mustache twitching. He made a bit a humming noise in some attempt to pass the time. His aged face bore signs of significant stress upon him, his hum a little off-key from his exhaustion.

It had been a long day.

Coran rubbed his face with the towel, his hum muffling. Then, he lowered the towel, looking at his tired self in the mirror.

And he froze, his eyes blowing wide.

Behind him wavered the image of the dead Emperor Lotor of the Galra.

He turned around, paling in horror as he came face-to-face with a ghostly apparition.

The ghost tilted his head, his too-bright eyes narrowing in curiously upon Coran. His white hair twisted about him in a wave. “…Advisor Coran,” he greeted, his voice a soft and dangerous echo on the air. “I think it’s time we had a chat.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. Apologies for the long wait with this story. But given that it's both whumptober and the month of Halloween, I knew I needed to get the Haunting updated soon! Lots of threads starting to pop up in this story; hopefully all of them continue to be interesting to you. But if you ever have requests or ideas of things you'd like to see happen, please let me know! This fic, like all of my fics lol, is experimental in many ways. It handles a lot of hard topics all at once, so some of this is me also trying to work through how to handle those topics or even how to depict them. Idk, I really enjoy writing The Haunting, but it's also a hard one to write for those reasons, lol. There's just so much that can go wrong a;sdjfas;lfj. I really struggled with this chapter in particular because I wanted to recognize the level of trauma that the Galra likely left on Earth with their s7 actions, while also recognizing that there's still an ongoing battle to get real justice. So the first scene was really hard to write. And then I debated back and forth on the metaphor Allura would use to explain stereotypes, but then I figured maybe the one I settled with is relevant, given current world events and yet all of our microscopic friends trying to help us out too a;dsfjasdlfj
> 
> I'm hoping all of you out there in fandom are staying safe and healthy during these times. 
> 
> Please review with your thoughts, constructive criticisms, questions, or ideas! Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! So just a warning that this chapter pretty heavily gets into the s6 fallout and into non-graphic/non-detailed references to dead bodies. I’m pretty sure that concept is covered under the rating and has also appeared in previous chapters, but I wanted to raise the flag because I know especially the VLD S8 scene showing Lotor’s body was traumatizing to some. That said, the goal is to find resolution, so I hope maybe there's some catharsis out of this crazy story, lol. 
> 
> Also, thanks to the following awesome people for reviewing last time:
> 
> LunarMagnolia: As always, thanks so much for your reviews! We’re definitely exploring a lot of trauma in here, aren’t we, lol. It’s def difficult to write a vulnerable Lotor since he usually tries so hard to internalize all that. And guh, yeah Zarkon’s appearance in this story is always a little unexpected, but I do think he would be keeping an eye on what his son is trying to do in this afterlife. I’m hoping that Coran can help save the day too, though! Thank you again for your support!!! 
> 
> Elaravos: Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! Keith and Lance aren’t characters I write so much, but they definitely are very interesting and add so much to the shenanigans of team Voltron, lol. Yeahh Lance definitely has some lessons to learn here. Thank you again! 
> 
> pride1289: Oh gosh, I love a ghostor too, and I imagine he and Coran will get up to some trouble, haha. Thanks for taking a chance on this story and reviewing! 
> 
> Geeeny: I LIVE TO SERVE CLIFFHANGERS. But also lollll yeah, Lance in this story is def being a jerk. We’ll see if he comes out of it, lol. In the meantime, thanks so much for continuing to read and review! 
> 
> EtincelleDOR: Bwahahaa, yeah idk where the virology lesson came from except that I constantly have COVID on the brain this year, I guess. XD But yooooo I see where you’re going with those etorphine and opiod receptors! Yeah, I’m hoping they can achieve that kind of bond too, LOL. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! 
> 
> gabi_lotura: Thank you for your kind words! Coran absolutely just wrote himself in, and I’m so excited for that because I really like his character and think Allura needs a whole support network! And haha, yeah I don’t think I’ve ever really explored Lance as antagonistic, so it’s definitely a new space. And ahhhh yesss Allura is capable of so much! I’m hoping we’ll get to see her doing better again soon too! In the meantime, thank you for reading and reviewing! 
> 
> VoidAbyss: Ahhh I’m so happy you enjoy my stories, thank you for your praise! And gosh, I feel you about being stressed lately, haha. Lots of work and real-life stuff going on—but I’m glad you found a little respite from all of that with this story. And thank you for your long reviews! About the canon, yeah, the lens through which we saw canon wasn’t particularly “fair” to either side. In fact, it does bother me that a majority of VLD is pretty punishing toward victims. But I suppose that’s getting into a tangent, lol. And ahhhh yes please, gib Lotor and Allura all the hugs and affection—they need it so much, guh. ;A; It actually hurts me sometimes to write this story. Like I def cried writing it before, haha. Gosh, Zarkon is such an odd character here because he’s very imperfect but also…trying, I guess? And omg “I guess a starving person may eat anything even if it was poisoned,” –yeah that’s a pretty apt description for what Allura is doing here, oof. Thank you so much for reading and for writing your extended reviews! 
> 
> Wallflwr97: Thank you for your kind words, and ahh I’m so glad we can flail in lotura emotions together lol. Yaaas, I feel like Allura would be very protective over children and would want the best for them, because I bet she could see herself in them. ;A; And ahh about that line of “allowing the body of this universe to heal,” it might be in reference to multiple bodies and not just celestial ones, hmm. I do think we’ll see more of the Alteans and the other paladins in future chapters! Keith is def worried!! As always, thank you for reading and for reviewing; I really appreciate it!

Coran’s eyes blew wide. “Uh, away apparition!” he cried, making gestures with his hands, flailing back and grabbing for a blanket of wool, as if to hold it before him as a shield. “Back to the realms of the dead with you!”

Lotor remained standing in the corner, his form shining bright. His lips stretched. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. Dangerous claws tapped against his armor. “No.”

The Altean man tensed, sheet-white in fear. “You must be a—a hallucination of some kind. You cannot possibly be here before me.”

“I assure you, I am quite real.” His lips pulled back to reveal sharp, glimmering fangs. “And I have much to discuss with you.”

Coran made a noise in the back of his throat. “My Pop Pop Wimbleton said to never speak with ghosts! You are an omen of bad luck!” He wiggled the wool blanket in fear. “Go away now—please, I’m still far too young to die!” 

Lotor moved forward, his white hair floating about him. His smirk faltered with a downturn of his lips. “And _I_ was not?”

A silence stretched between them, with a pajama-clad Coran still brandishing his blanket as a protective barrier. “Is that why you’re here? To haunt us all with your ghostly fury?”

Lotor tried again. “I have come to you, in want for your help,” he declared, voice straining. “Your beloved princess fails to thrive. You have spoken with Allura, but she lies to you and is dying yet as we speak.” He tilted his head. “She needs your support, for you are the only person she might call true family.” 

The Altean man’s elfin ears flicked back, and his mustache twitched. He eyed the ghost. And then he asked hesitantly, “Do you mean to say, you’re here on Allura’s behalf?”

Lotor did not blink—yet another indication of his death. “Yes." He waved his hand, his clawed fingers glowing. “I am her guardian while you all have abandoned her.”

Coran gasped. “I have not abandoned her! Why, I’ve—I’m doing what I can to help her. To give her a home on Altea, where she belongs.”

“…But her own people do not want her.”

“Many do,” Coran pleaded. He lowered the blanket and wrapped himself in it. “It’s just very complicated. Lots of diplomacy meetings and—attempts to raise awareness about how Allura saved your own victims!” 

Lotor bared a fang at that in a warning, blurring forward to stand before Coran.

The Altean went cross-eyed, gulping and backing away.

Lotor poked his chest. “There will _be_ no Princess Allura to fight for,” he warned, “if you do not return immediately to planet Earth. She is dying as we speak—spiritually, physically, mentally.” 

Coran trembled lightly in his blanket. “You tried to kill her,” he said, voice wavering. “In life.”

He pulled away, his face tightening in frustration. “Yes. I am attempting to rectify what I can. I am trying to save her now from a slow, debilitating end. For I’ve seen her crave death, and I am disturbed that the Princess of Altea has fallen so low.” He narrowed his eyes. “And that so many could miss the signs.” 

“What signs?” the man pleaded. “I check in with her often! She’s been ill, yes—”

“—She is not ill,” Lotor snarled. “She is _depressed_. You all have left her in the hands of a man-child, on a strange planet, where its citizens have turned her into a nursemaid for their little ones.” He snapped Coran’s blanket away, eyes lit in a righteous indignation. “You stand here in your sleeping clothes with little clouds on them while the princess vomits up her every meal and cries herself to sleep.”

Coran’s hair had unsettled in the stealing of the blanket. He stood still in fear of Lotor’s wrath, his back stiff. “She—she’s trying to start a family with Lance,” he said tightly.

Lotor’s claws sliced into the wool blanket in fury. “Her body could not support life, even if she tried. Her illness is not from conceiving.” He dropped the blanket, and it fell to the floor at his feet in a defeated unravel. “What sort of fool are you, that you cannot tell the difference?”

“Now, listen here,” Coran cut in shakily, raising a finger. “I’m no fool, young man.”

“Then heed my warnings,” he hissed. “For I cannot save her alone.” His voice caught in a strange way. “She needs you. And her mice. And a way out of spreading her legs for the paladin who simply wants a broodmare and a pair of breasts to grope.”

Coran gasped. “That is no way to speak of a princess.”

“She no longer sees herself worthy of the title,” Lotor snapped, his ears flicking back in fury. “Do you not hear me? She _wants_ to die, as a way to escape her many demons.” His face broke. “I was vindicated by her misery for a short time, but I cannot her see her die by starvation and end up as I am, wandering outside the House of Songs.”

Another great silence stretched.

Coran swallowed hard. “You, ah, you truly believe she’s---” He scratched at his mustache—“she’s in trouble, then.”

“Yes.”

The advisor’s face broke. “Then I’ll go to her and see for myself if she’s been lying to me.” His voice caught. “But I’m barely keeping tensions calm here. You’ve made quite a mess, you have, with all of your brainwashing. On top of Honerva’s.”

Lotor bared his fangs again. “I brainwashed no one—your people simply chose to worship me.”

“You played with their lives,” Coran accused. “Not many want to believe what you did to their families. And your followers are the reason I have to be here instead of with Allura!” He straightened his collar, shakily attempting some form of decorum. “So, apparition, if you’re looking to help, then perhaps you could do something about all of this strange worship and people wanting to hang Allura as a war criminal.”

His face pulled in a discomfort. “They want to _hang_ her?”

Coran stepped forward, his eyes hardening in a weary bravery. “Many of your worshippers believe her and the paladins to be guilty of war crimes and wish to place her on trial for it.” His voice grew halted. “If the council found her guilty…”

Lotor bared his fangs, his face tightening at the mention of that dark day. “It is not their place to punish her or to idolize me.”

The advisor looked worn. “Try explaining that to them! But they do not know the old Galran-Altean treaties, nor do they believe that you snapped and endangered the universe.” 

His cheeks flushed. He could not meet Coran’s eyes any further, instead pulling away. “I do not require a history lesson,” he said, voice halted. 

“I say, if I’m this deep into talking to the dead, then I might as well make some demands too.” Coran clasped his hands together, then begged, “If you love the princess, then help your followers see the truth.”

“The princess demanded I not haunt them,” he snapped. “And they are not my followers. I know not what they truly love, for my body still lay forgotten in the dirt of a backwater planet not far from Oriande.” He raised a clawed hand to his chest, face in a twist. “I feel it.”

Coran’s mouth clicked shut at that, his face falling in surprise. His orange brows knitted together. He dared to ask, “You…didn’t evaporate in the quintessence field?”

“No.” His voice roughened hard. “The witch cut my body from the piloting seat. These Alteans you say worship me—none of them buried me. I lay exposed to the elements even now.” He moved to cross his arms, his white hair floating about him as a curtain against the world. His eyes misted. “They feared my image and all of its distortions.” 

The advisor swallowed hard. It was against Altean practices to leave the dead unburied. “What planet?”

Lotor turned to him, face vulnerable. “It does not matter, for I am not in that body. Not anymore.”

Coran’s eyes narrowed in increasing revelation. “But you still have a tie to it. To be able to feel where you are.”

Another silence.

The ghost searched his eyes. “Why do you care? Am I not the enemy you wished to shoo away not but ticks ago?”

The advisor’s face cracked. “I, ah, I know someone who demanded to know where you were. To bury you properly, if it were possible. If you share the planet’s name, then I will send it forward—and we’ll get you settled.”

The ghost on the other side of the room suddenly looked small. And then he narrowed his gaze. “No one is left who would bury me willingly. You lie to gain information.”

He huffed indignantly. “Lies are for coalition meetings where they feed you stale finger foods and then ask you what you think. No—I would not lie about this. Burying an Altean is very important, it is. But we just didn’t know you were still around.”

Lotor swallowed down an odd emotion. “It would be a pointless endeavor. The princess might yet return me to life. In doing so, I would have a new body, and that would break my connection to the old one.”

Coran blinked at that, then narrowed his eyes in concern as he rubbed his chin in suspicion. “Ah, so is _that_ what all of this is? An attempt to manipulate the princess to bringing you back to life?”

Lotor’s face shadowed. “It is no manipulation that your princess was happiest with _me_ , and I her,” he said, voice halted. “She will die and become a wraith like me if her self-punishment continues, of which I have tried to absolve her. And it will not matter what honors or funerals you bestow on her body; she will mourn ever existing at all. She will not enter the House of Songs.”

The weight of his prophecy fell heavy in the room. Coran’s hand fell from his chin.

Lotor stepped forward. “But I need your help regardless of my own status,” he said, voice strangling. “You are Allura’s father figure. She loves you dearly—perhaps you can give her more reasons to live.”

The older man’s eyes misted. “She said she was happy with Lance. I—I can’t believe she would lie.”

“She would to hide her suffering,” Lotor retorted. “You will return to Earth and see for yourself. And as for these followers who desire her death—the princess requested I not haunt them. But I shall find their place of worship and…haunt that.”

The ghost and the old advisor eyed each other, united in their concern over Princess Allura.

Coran’s voice caught. “They’re still our people, and your victims.”

He moved away, his white hair in a swish. “They are my people as well,” he snapped. “And I will set right what I have allowed to fester.” His face ticked. “Then, you will see me differently.”

The advisor watched the ghost wearily. “I’m seeing you quite different right now,” he retorted, then dared to lightly poke the ghost’s arm—only for his fingertips to make a quiet ding against hard armor. “Or am I. Hm.”

Lotor huffed and added, voice straining, “And I suppose…in the event I do not earn a resurrection, then my body rests on Planet Cronix, near where Oriande once was located. If someone were to bury it now, at least I would not feel the winds and rains irritating my senses.”

Coran hesitated, pulling away He grabbed for his datapad on the bedside table, his face tight. “Well, as Pop Pop Wimbleton also said, if a ghost asks you to help them find rest, then you better help them out.”

* * *

On the far side of the Altean capital loomed a half-constructed statue of Lotor—a replica of the one that once stood upon the colony Pollux. The legs and torso had been cut already from the stone, with several artists still chiseling away to reveal broad shoulders. At the feet of the statue, several Alteans kneeled with candles in a vigil for the fallen Lotor.

Beyond them were the protestors holding signs. The distinct Altean script dripped in bold ink: _Lotor killed my family!_

_Down with Galran Imperial Worship!_

_Stop worshipping The Great Deceiver!_

_Bring Princess Allura Home!_

_Justice for Jula and the other 487 victims of Lotor!_

The protesters walked about the display, occasionally chanting in passionate demand for the statue work to stop. Those performing the vigil turned to the protesters and glared, while security officers stood between the two factions tensely.

The ghost of Lotor materialized in the distance, having followed the chant of his name into the heart of the capital city. His blue eyes widened as he moved to lean against a building ledge, his white hair a swirl about him from the evening wind.

A cold chill slithered down his spine. He’d once stared upon the statue of Pollux in a grimace, knowing that Altean protections came at a cost they did not know.

But this…

The statue stood in the midst of a Altean spiritual circle, a religious symbol carved into the stone floor to indicate an old god. Within the circle was also a rough doll someone had made of Princess Allura, with pins through its stomach, as if to stab it to death.

Lotor’s breath hitched as he pulled away, his elfin ears pressing against his skull in a nausea—and then fury. His fingers trembled as he clenched his fist, his claws prickling hard into his own skin. It was blasphemy to use a spiritual circle even for ancestors. It was blasphemy to deface the image of an Altean, for Alteans believed art was physically connected with its subject—that it was violence against a person to deface their image.

His eyes misted as he stared at the lone doll, with its arms and legs in a flop at the statue’s feet, its blue-button eyes staring back at him in a hollow nothing.

He thought of Allura vomiting again and again until nothing was left in her stomach, crying helplessly in want for death.

And he lost it.

Lotor bared his fangs in a snarl, surging forward as his form materialized fully on the visible plane. So furious was he, the quintessence around him coiled hot. The ground shook, and the winds sharpened, snuffing every candle of the vigil-goers. Signs slipped from protestor’s hands. A security officer lost her hat.

In a blur, he kneeled before the statue of himself, his clawed fingers tightening around the doll.

Around him, the people gasped and cried out in fear, for the image of the dead Emperor Lotor raised before them—his form slightly transparent and eyes too-bright in the haunt of death, his white hair glowing with the energy of pure quintessence.

He stood holding the little doll of Princess Allura. And for all of his terrifying image, his breath hitched as he shakily worked to remove each little pin. He felt a terrible protectiveness for the ragged doll. So small and frail. Easily breakable in his hands—its painted straw crinkling.

The sharp pins dropped in dings to the stones about him. “How dare you corrupt your religious centers with so many blasphemies at once,” he admonished, voice halted. “First, a statue to me in a sacred place—when I am nether a god nor your ancestor—and next, defacing an effigy of the princess. How lucky that only a wandering wraith like me would see this spectacle, and not the Life Givers who rest in the House of Songs.”

His white hair swirled about him as he turned to the Alteans, his dark armor glinting in the light of Altea’s two moons. His face was tight. “And whether the ancient beliefs are true or not regarding effigies, your hatred of the princess has caused her great suffering. Do you honestly wish to gut her as you did this doll? Or hang her, as I've heard?" 

One of the worshippers shakily raised her head, her dark hair sliding down her shoulders. “Great Prince who has appeared to us,” she called, her sweet voice twisted in pain, and shaky in fear—for all knew that ghosts existed, but very few had ever seen one. “She killed you when you were our protector. We saw your body in the ship. We saw how she _ruined_ you. She is a war criminal.”

Lotor’s face shadowed, and his voice raised in a sharp snap. “Without interference from the witch and quintessence insanity, perhaps a trial would have taken place, and I would yet still live.” His eyes slid to both the protestors and the worshippers. “But by Altean laws, those of royal blood hold judicial rights in war-time. I twisted that right to justify sacrificing Alteans in a way I hoped to be temporary, for peace. The princess exercised that right to demand justice for breaking various covenants as your war-time protector. If she is a war criminal, then so am I. And you have made me a blasphemer as well, to raise my image in your places of worship.”

The worshipper fell silent, stricken yet by the sight of him and by the sharpness of his voice—and his displeasure.

His face fell in pain. “Perhaps, instead of fighting each other, you should work together, to ensure your new governments cannot discount you or those like me.” He looked down at the little abused Allura doll. “But do keep in mind, you fight on the very planet Allura returned to you.” His voice tightened. “So you will not deface her image again. I will not allow it.”

The protestors stood in shock at the sight of the ghost.

His voice broke. “And as for you all—I am already dead. That is the highest price I could pay, and I hear Allura has restored your loved ones. But I can offer you one further solace, to end the misery of your night.” 

Lotor touched his hand to the half-formed stone statue, closing his eyes, which had misted with great emotion. The stone soon began to shake—and then crumble before him into a pile of rocks.

The sound rumbled along with many cries of consternation.

The rocks spun against the religious circle, until they fell cold and silent once more.

Lotor’s face tightened as he looked at the worshipping woman who first spoke to him, whose cheeks gleamed with tears of pain and disbelief at her fallen god.

She wailed out, “I don’t understand. What have we done?” She held out her hands as if to beg him for mercy. Other followers mimicked her actions in terror of the ghost before them. “You did not kill those people—we know you didn’t. Why do you punish _us_?”

Lotor sought to offer them comfort, but his voice strained. “I am not deserving of your great esteem, for truly, I did sacrifice many. But if you care to remember me fondly, then find the half-breed children no one wants, and give them homes and opportunity. They need love far more than a statue does. And I will not be here, besides.”

The woman wiped her nose on her sleeve, crying. It seemed she had not quite acknowledged Lotor’s confession—only that he was leaving once more. “But what about you? Where will you be?”

A dark mischief shadowed Lotor’s face, and his wide lips stretched, revealing sharp fangs. “Ah, I’ll be far too busy haunting the princess.”

Then, he was gone, his form materializing out with only his fanged smile lingering.

* * *

Such a display of power had exhausted Lotor. He phased out to the spiritual plane, face worn as he glanced back down at the material universe. The mischief and frustration in him dampened in his tiredness, and he moved to sit down against the ledge of the great connecting quintessence bridges between planets.

Lotor set the little Allura effigy in his lap, staring at it in a mix of pain and guilt. He recalled then the princess once begging him, “ _Do not haunt them. They are victims in all of this_.”

His elfin ears flicked back. “I did not haunt them,” he retorted haltingly to the doll, as if it truly were Allura. “I haunted the statue and the religious circle. And no one died. Do not look at me like that.”

The doll’s big gum-drop blue eyes stared up at him hollowly, as if it were unamused at his technical attempts to slip out beneath Allura’s demand.

His face twisted. He still stroked the little doll’s hair, curious of its curled plant fibers, “Perhaps I might defend that you did not clarify what haunting someone means,” he murmured. “Not all hauntings must be violent. For I am not violent with you, am I?”

His clawed fingers trailed over the holes bored in the little doll’s stomach. His throat tightened. “Not as I was, anyway.”

An anxiety crept up within him, at his quintessence-tinged memories of snapping.

The doll’s eyes stared up at him.

“But what will we do with you?” he murmured. “The Ancients believed that to break a spiritual connection between an art piece and a person, the effigy must be buried or burned.”

Upon the bridges, other wraiths slipped by, searching for new worlds to wander in as they worked off their debts. A few of them murmured to each other about Lotor, whose long legs hung off the edge of the bridge, as if he would jump.

He looked down into the great expanse of the universe around him, gripping the doll closer to him in fear that it would drop and fall forever—and leave the true Allura perpetually dizzy or unsure of her steps.

Could she feel it now, even? That her effigy hung in a transitory state, right alongside Lotor?

…And in this level of quiet, could _he_ feel something as well?

The winds of quintessence shifted around him, almost imperceptibly. Lotor paused, his eyes darting up in consternation at the feeling of it, for he recognized the muted sense. He had felt it in violent rains and rains before—

—but this was far different than natural weather slipping against his physical body.

His eyes widened, his jaw dropping. He forced himself into a stand, still cradling the Allura doll. “What is—?” He touched his chest, his claws ticking against the metal. His breath hitched.

His body was being _moved_.

He blurred forward, searching desperately through the bridges of the realm for the location of the planet Cronix, where his body lay. The orange of the planet glowed from the nearby star, and Lotor narrowed his gaze, peering through the clouded atmosphere and the rain and the cliffs. His dead heart lurched within him, in fear of seeing his own body once more.

Only to realize…he couldn’t, for it was wrapped head to toe in a patterned, dark and blue cloth, with constellation designs.

And the body was not alone.

* * *

An old, frail Galran woman was digging a shallow pit, using a shovel. Rain dripped from her wrinkled face, distorting the usually sleek winged tips of her makeup. Mud coated her boots. Despite the thinness of her arms, she moved stiffly and with great purpose. One shovel-full of dirt at a time.

A communication frequency blinked purple from a device on her wrist. “ _Did you find him yet_?” came in Coran’s worried voice.

Dayak of the Galra stood, face pained as her spine cricked unsteadily from the hard labor. Her breath was a harsh puff against the drizzle. “Yes. Though you still have not told me how you determined it was this planet. After so much time searching and concluding he was gone.”

The advisor’s voice tightened. “ _Ah—w-well, it was an unexpected discovery, from a hidden source. But I…I knew you were looking for him still, and I thought I should pass it along_.”

Dayak’s fingers trembled against the shovel, her old heart pounding. She raised a hand to her chest, closing her eyes from the exertion. She was far too old to be digging graves. Her aged voice tightened. “I would think perhaps one of his followers from that Altean colony told you, but what civilized citizen leaves one of their own to rot?”

Coran hesitated, then offered helplessly, “ _Many saw his body before his mother removed it from the Sincline ship—not after_.” 

The woman’s face broke. She set the shovel into the muddy earth, leaning against it. “That woman was not his mother,” she rasped in pain. “She dishonored his form, to leave him here like this. She did not even wrap him in the Coverings of Our Ancestors. _I_ had to do that, as I suspected I would.”

It fell silent.

There was the rush of sound from Coran’s side, as if he were in the midst of moving about his room. “ _Best not to tell the Coalition any of this. He’s a war criminal to most_.”

Dayak leaned her cheek against her arm, breath still unsteady. “I know what he did,” she snapped. Tears watered her eyes. “I saw the data for the rips in the universe—do not lecture me about his actions.”

Coran’s voice tightened. “ _Madam, I simply mean to warn you that_ —”

“—I know what I risk,” she hissed out, voice breaking. “But wouldn’t you risk the same, if it had been your princess lying in the dirt, forgotten and without an ancestral Covering?” She grabbed for her shovel, more determinedly digging out dirt to form a shallow grave. “I do not care what anyone thinks. I will bury the boy I raised. I will give him rest.”

Her breath was harsh.

Coran tried again. “ _You shouldn’t strain yourself to_ —”

“—I am the only Dayak to survive the reign of Zarkon,” she snapped back, still digging even as her eyes watered with tears. “I am stronger than you can even imagine. I can bury this child I raised, no matter what he did. I can bury him when no one else could.”

Coran failed to answer. 

Dayak snapped, “Now tell me why I hear you banging around in the background. It’s most disrespectful.”

The man made a noise. “ _Ah, I am packing to leave Altea on this night. I’ve—news that the princess is…very ill_.”

Another shove-full of dirt. A deeper grave. 

Dayak’s face twisted hard in pain, her thin lips pressing together. For all of her fury at Lotor’s death, she was not cruel enough to wish her own pain upon Coran. Instead, she said roughly, “I have heard the tales that she now warms the bed of that human boy, the Red Paladin. Perhaps she is merely with child.”

Coran seemed quite frazzled. “ _I asked, and she said that wasn’t it. I don’t know what’s wrong—a source says she may be dying. I’m…I thought she was safe and well on Earth, but I fear Allura has been lying to me._ ”

That stilled Dayak’s hand. She hesitated, stiffly straightening up. “Young ones lie,” she warned. “For many reasons.” Her voice broke slightly. “Lotor used to lie that his bruises were from falling, when I knew otherwise.”

A shuffling sound echoed, then paused in the silence.

Coran’s voice softened. “ _I wish—things…_ ” His voice tightened up. “ _Well, it’s an awful rotten awful lot, all this is. And I am truly sorry for your loss, madam_.”

Dayak stood in the drizzled, staring off at the wrapped form that was Lotor’s body. Her lips began to tremble. Some part of her had failed to absorb anything more as she stared at the patterns on the cloth, which contained ritualistic maps of the heavens—to where the Galra once believed the House of Songs was located. The ancient Galra believed souls needed maps to find it.

And no one had given Lotor a map, culturally cutting him off from an afterlife of happiness.

Her breath hitched. “He will find the House of Songs now. I’ve ensured it.” And then she continued to dig dutifully. “Go to your princess, Advisor Coran. I will finish what I started.”

Another silence.

He said, voice straining, “ _I, ah, don’t know how to express this. But do keep an eye open, madam. Ghosts haunt in the darkness, you know_.”

Dayak made a face. “Only in children’s stories.” And she disconnected the frequency, sighing hard, still breathless and overwhelmed at the work that lay ahead of her yet. “And I am far too old for any of this.” 

And so she sat down with a wince and a groan, reaching for her personal supplies pack. She sat for a time, realizing how far she had to go to dig a grave by herself for her boy.

And it was then that, as she stared off into the distance, she caught sight of a flickering form.

Thinking it merely her own old eye-sight, she paid no mind to it.

But then it moved closer.

Soon, a flickering Lotor appeared before her, his form weak on the visible plane, holding tightly what looked to be an Allura doll in his arms.

Dayak’s eyes moved up from the dark boots to catch the sight of all-too-familiar armor and a handsome, youthful face—a face that had once pleaded with her in want for little sweets and huffed that his math courses were far too boring. 

Lotor’s voice was a halted velvet—an echoing sound, as if he were yet far away. “… _You_ are burying me?”

The sound of it goose-bumped her skin. She stared up at him in consternation, and then she raised her chin and said, voice a rough, watery snap, “I don’t give in to hallucinations normally. But you have caught me on an off day. So I will tell you, yes.”

The ghost of Lotor tilted his head. For all the emotion on his face, his lips split in an adoration. And a merry sound slipped from him. “Ah, very well.” His own voice was watery. “How glad I am, to have found you on an off day.”

Dayak blinked again. She’d imagined Lotor several times as perhaps an upset prisoner of the Voltron Coalition, or a visiting ghost. Something about this image seemed far less within her control, as he was not rageful or upset as she usually imagined him.

He stepped forward. The edges of his form scattered about him, as if he were struggling to hold together. “I’ve a favor to ask of you.”

Dayak felt no fear, instead narrowing her bloodshot eyes curiously that her desperate mind could conjure such a ghost.

Lotor kneeled before her in the mud, his form broad and tall, not quite blocking the horizon behind him. He pushed against her hands a strange looking doll that mimicked the appearance of one Princess Allura.

“Bury her with me,” he begged. “In case it carries real power against her.” 

The doll was tangible against Dayak’s fingers. Her skin goose-bumped at the tangle scratch of the doll’s rough dress material.

Dayak began to pale in realization. “What is—?”

This ghost before her was _real_.

And then Lotor pressed his lips together, then managed a sad twitch, sneaking the shovel away from her. “But do not wear yourself out. You’re quite old, now.”

It was too much. His form began to fade out. And the winds brushed against her cheek before he was gone.

Dayak held onto the Allura doll in great consternation. Tears brimmed her eyes, and she reached out, only for the air to be fully empty. “I am not that old,” she retorted, but her voice caught hard, wavering with a mix of joy and sorrow to have seen Lotor.

The real one.

* * *

Late that night, Allura sat in a daze upon her bed, wearing a baggy t-shirt and pajama pants, fretful that Lotor had left for so long. Her thin fingers swiped at a datapad on her lap, and the screen flashed with a new set of cards. The cards were listings of open positions at the Galaxy Garrison.

 _Commission of Intergalactic Affairs – Culture Officer_ , was one. It was little more than a part-time desk job, but its duties included research and briefing internal Garrison officials over intergalactic cultures and governments.

A step toward…something more.

Allura’s eyes watered as she stared at the title. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she complained to herself, voice breaking. “I drove Lotor away with a simple lecture for children. The Galra only just tolerate me. My own people hate me. As if I could be anything more.”

She pushed the datapad away, pressing her lips together to hide a tremble.

But her eyes continued to stare at the title.

“ _You feel it as I do_ ,” Lotor still tempted in her memories. “ _Diplomacy is your birthright, as it is mine_.”

“I can barely handle children,” she whispered back to him. “Or myself.”

And then, in the middle of her fret, came a smooth, velvet voice. “At least now you recognize you’re not ready to be a mother.”

Allura’s elfin ears flicked back, and her eyes widened—her heart jumping in her chest. “Lotor?” She looked up.

A shadowed form flickered between dimensions. Lotor’s form lit with a dull light, his exhaustion so apparent that his white hair did not float about him as it usually did. “I’ve…expended much energy on this day,” he said haltingly. His face turned to her, worn but satisfied. “I will fade soon.” 

She made a noise of fear. “Permanently?”

His wide mouth stretched. “No. But I see you missed me, to have such fear.” His voice turned with a sultry pout. “I missed you as well.” He crossed his arms, a merriment in his eyes and upon his face.

Allura, in relief, exhaled a breath she did not know she was even holding in. “Oh, do not disappear on me so,” she complained, her white brows knitting together. “I thought you were angry with me. And what is this, about expending energy? Am I no longer the only person you haunt?”

His form moved forward, his steps a slowly and aching trudge—as if the universe itself knew his existence was unnatural upon the material plane. He leaned his palms against her bed, his white hair slipping down his broad shoulders. In his exhaustion, Allura could see that his skin seemed pulled too tight against his skull. But his eyes focused on hers with the full of his mischievous soul. “Are you jealous, princess?”

She shakingly reached out to touch his cheek. His form was nearly transparent, his skin a cold pressure of air. “I’m quite used to you now,” she said, voice catching, “and used to having you with me in the evenings. Your absence was very abrupt.”

“Did you eat dinner?” he murmured.

“I tried,” she whispered. Then she hesitantly added, “What so caught your attention in the spirit world, that you left? Were you angry with me over my lecture?”

His eyes searched hers. Hesitantly, he said, “No. My governess—she found my body upon the planet Cronix. I attended my own funeral…or part of it. She yet still digs the grave.”

Allura blinked. Her full lips dropped, and her fingers slipped away. For a time, words failed her. “Your body?” she whispered.

“Yes.” He saw the distress rise in her, and he added, voice catching, “I tell you only so that you will not think I left you today as punishment.”

“Your body?” she whispered again, the color draining from her. “B-but…the Galra searched.” Her eyes bubbled with tears. “They did not find you. We all thought…perhaps Honerva burned or—or vaporized it somehow.”

Lotor leaned his forehead against hers—a slight pressure, the strands of his hair tickling her as if they were snowflakes melting against her skin. “It does not matter. I do feel the Covering of Our Ancestors now, and soon I will not feel anything from that body at all.”

Her breath hitched. She tried to reach up again to stroke his hair. “I did not know you could feel such. You never said.”

“It did not matter.”

“It does,” she pressed, voice breaking. A strength raised in her voice. “No matter what you did, it _does_ matter. That is why I wanted to go back for you.”

Lotor pulled away from her, searching her eyes. His face was tight with an emotion. “Why? In Galran culture, criminals are left to the elements. Is that not what I became?”

Allura brushed tears from her eyes, but her voice remained strong. “Images are very important to our shared people,” she pressed. “Your body still carries an image of you, and it _must_ be buried. Perhaps that is why you are so unhappy still.” She began to move, grabbing for her sleeping robe. “I should go to where your governess is, and help her. What was the planet again? Did I hear you say Cronix?”

Lotor turned, a noise strangling in his throat. “Yes, but—”

“—And your governess is so terribly old,” Allura cut in, fretful. “It is not good to leave such backbreaking work to elders. I should—I should do the work.”

He tilted his head, a worry overcoming him. “You are not to see the grave.”

She turned to him, cinching her sleeping robe and haphazardly moving to pull on her boots. “Why ever not?”

Lotor raised his chin. A vulnerable tick shadowed his face. “I do not want you to see me.”

Allura looked up, her eyes bubbling with tears. “I already have. In…Honerva’s memories, when I connected with her mind. I saw you…so it does not matter.”

The ghost backstepped. His ears flicked back, and a gnawing pain overcame him, that even in death, he’d had no dignity before Allura. His face broke. “Then, I do not want you to see me again,” he repeated. “For your sake, and for mine. Please.”

Her fingers stilled on the snaps of her boots. Tears slipped down her cheeks. “But your governess, Dayak. She is so very—”

“—Capable.” Lotor’s eyes searched hers in pain. “I will help her when I can, but at least I would not collapse on her as you would in your state. Not withstanding, if you leave Earth without warning, it will raise many concerns to your people here.” 

Allura’s face screwed up, her ears drooping. “Why, because everyone fears I’ll collapse another civilization?” The strength in her suddenly fizzled out, her shoulders dropping in loss. Her eyes slid to the datapad with the Culture Officer card still merrily lit. She broke. “Can I do nothing right?”

Lotor stepped forward, hesitantly, focusing. With great concentration, he lifted the datapad in his wavering hands to peer at it curiously. “On the contrary,” he murmured, “you’re quite capable of many things as well. And you know it, beneath your grief.”

Allura grabbed for her stomach, looking ill. She attempted to speak, but her eyes watered instead. 

He moved to lay the datapad in her lap. His fingers slipped against her arms. “Let the past bury the past,” he begged softly. “And look to the future, where we might yet find happiness.”

Her breath hitched. She moved to reach for him, but her fingers slid through his transparent form in the most unnatural way, chilling her. Reminding her of their innate separations. It broke her further. She stared down at her trembling fingers, her vision blurring. Lance’s golden ring still shone. “How can we find happiness, least of all together?”

Lotor reached up to stroke her cheek even though his fingers could not touch her or wipe away her tears. “Forces are moving in your direction, in ways you do not yet know.”

She sniffled, her big eyes watering and vulnerable. “What forces?”

His form grew more transparent, but his face tightened with great concentration. “You will see, princess. You will see it very clearly.”

His distorting form materialized away, leaving Allura alone and still bent over her boots, her skin goose-bumping from his ghostly touch.

She sat alone in her room once more, breath hitching. “No force would move for me. And I am no longer a princess.”

* * *

But even as Allura spoke those words, on the far side of the universe, Dayak had dutifully kneeled in the dirt, tucking the pierced and abused doll of Allura into the sacred wrappings around Lotor’s own lost form. Her clawed fingers pulled away shakily to inspect her work.

It almost mimicked the way the ghost had carried the little doll in his arms so protectively.

Dayak’s face screwed up hard, her vision blurring with tears. “I would have rather you lived,” she complained roughly, voice watery. “and come to me holding a child in your arms rather than a doll.” 

The doll’s blue-button eyes still peeked out from the top of the readjusted wrappings.

The governess stared at it for a time, as if perhaps it held some secret about the ways of the universe. A pained fury flickered across her face, for stories of resurrected Alteans had spread through the galaxy with a hushed and suspicious awe, as the victims of Lotor were said to be largely still under medical supervision and were heavily protected from inquiring entities.

Not that the princess would resurrect a man deemed a war criminal.

She stared at the wrapped body before her and the strange little doll. “If Lotor still cares for you in death…do you still care for him in life?” 

The doll, of course, had no answer. But the light drizzle of rain had dripped upon its face, as if its blue-button eyes were crying. The raindrops slipped to the dark wrappings that covered the remains of Lotor.

Dayak’s throat tightened.

And she began to dig once more in the darkness of the night, her wrinkled and gnarled knuckles bleeding white against the shovel—in anxiety and sorrow, in hope. “Maybe you _would_ return him to me,” she rasped out loud to herself, voice breaking. “Maybe this isn’t the end.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! We've made it to December 2020, and they're rolling out vaccines for COVID as we speak, and I'm still over here flailing about lotura and VLD angst in my free time to keep my mind off things. I hope you're all staying safe and healthy! 
> 
> This chapter was pretty difficult for me to write for a lot of reasons, because I know the topics at hand are very heavy and things that need to be handled with care. I think this chapter only scratches the surface of what could be explored in this post-s8 AU. And I have negative emotion over how canon handled some stuff about Lotor, Allura, and the Altean colony and their trauma, so I think as I write, I'm trying to work some stuff out, lol. Like, given everything provided in canon, what does resolution even mean for all of these different parties involved...? How do I most responsibly handle these very painful topics? How is catharsis achieved in these instances? What really is justice? These are some of the thoughts that haunt me at night, lol. Can't say I'm perfect at trying to answer them, but I'll give it the old college try here in a fanfic. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this story continues to be of interest in the ways that, ah, post-s8 content can be. Hopefully you saw some of the sparks of hope in this chapter, that even though things look bleak sometimes, there's silver linings and opportunities. That sometimes things are darkest just before the dawn. And that's kind of how I personally feel going into this December, haha. 
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts, constructive criticisms, requests, or ideas! Please review, and thank you for reading!


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